378



In the Guard’s Van.



describe ’im, but ’e sings beautiful and I thought you might know.”

But I didn’t know.


In May of this, year, 1913, I travelled from Genoa overland

to Calais bringing with me about 60 birds. The Italian guard was

a revelation. In his own home no doubt he is an estimable father-

of-family—anxious over the bambino’s first tooth, insistent on

Maria’s first communion ; an only son perhaps—and kindness itself

to the old mother with whom he and his wife and the children all

live amicably together.


On his own train it is another story. He is a creature

objectionable in the extreme. He gapes for tips as a young cuckoo

gapes for food, and is just as insatiable. How I hate doing English

Hedge-Sparrow to an Italian Cuckoo ! Furthermore he has as many

brothers as an Indian servant, and all of them, in some mysterious

way, manage to control and to do, totally unnecessary jobs and have

to be tipped accordingly. My birds and I paid for Maria’s outfit and

contributed largely to her dowry.


The French guards are of two kinds. The first is very “red-

tapey ” and won’t let you travel in the van at any price—he won’t

even take a ‘ pour-boire,’ but if tactfully approached he will fall to a

cigar — a good one is quite unnecessary as nearly all French cigars

are villianous, so I kept a special brand of very long black ones.

They smelt like burning seaweed and were much appreciated.


The second tpye of guard is the perfect gentleman ! and he is

also the one more usually met with. He does his best to help, talks

all the time, is joyously enthusiastic and generally has many stories

with which to enliven the journey.


The guard’s van in France is usually just behind the engine,

and in it there is a sort of conning tower, much like that of a sub¬

marine. From the raised seat inside it one looks right over the

engine on to the line close ahead, and at first the view is rather

alarming. As a motorist one is accustomed to slow up for corners

but the train just rushes blindly at them and tears round with a

shriek from the whistle. It was not until I remembered, with a

sigh of relief, that trains run by signal and have a clear road and a

right of way, that I got over the feeling that there was sure to be a

donkey cart round the corner into which we were bound to crash.



