ON the next morning, which was Sunday, Jack hurried through his dressing and washing at a great pace and instantly disappeared. The others were just beginning breakfast when he came rushing up in a state of wild excitement, calling, "Kink! Kink!"
"What is it?" said that leisurely man.
"It's a rabbit!" cried Jack. "I've caught it, and I don't know how to kill it."
"Oh, Jack," said Mary, running up, "don't kill it! Why should it be killed?"
"For supper, of course," said Jack. "Come on, Kink! Quick, or it will get away!"
They all left their breakfast and followed Jack, and when they came up to him he was kneeling over a kicking object.
"Oh, Kink," he said, "do hold it and kill it! How do you do it? The gipsy boy didn't show me properly."
"The gipsy boy?" said Mary.
"Yes, he gave me a wire. See, it's round its neck. That's how I caught him. Do kill him, Kink!"
"Please don't do anything of the kind," said Janet. "We don't want to eat rabbits we catch like that."
"No," said Hester, "please don't kill it. Please let it go."
"What mollycoddles you are!" said Jack. "How do you suppose rabbits are killed, anyway? You eat them all right when they're cooked."
"I couldn't eat a rabbit that I had seen struggling alive," said Janet.
"No," said Mary. "Oh, Jack, please let him go! You've caught him, and that's the great thing; and now be merciful."
Kink still held the struggling creature.
"I vote he's let loose again," said Robert. "I don't want any of him."
"No, and I'm sure I don't," said Gregory; "but wouldn't it be fun to keep him in a hutch?"
"Wild rabbits are no good in hutches," said Kink.
Jack was very sullen. "It's awful rot," he said. "You all ought to be vegetarians if you talk like that. But we'll let him go," and he loosened the wire and the rabbit dashed away.
"A nice return to the gipsy for his kindness," Jack muttered.
Kink watched the rabbit till it was out of sight. "Whose rabbit do you suppose that was?" he asked.
"Mine," said Jack.
"What about the farmer?" said Kink.
"A nice return for a night's lodging—poaching his rabbits."
"Poaching!" cried Horace. "Is that poaching? Is Jack a poacher? Oh, how splendid! Jack's a poacher! Jack's a poacher! I wish I was."
"I'd never thought of it as poaching," said Jack, who was not a little proud of his new character.
"When did you set the wire?" Horace asked him.
"Late last night," said Jack. "After you had turned in."
"Wasn't it pitch dark?" Horace asked.
"There was a moon," said Jack, feeling twice his ordinary size.
"But what did you do?" Horace asked.
"Well," said Jack, "I had noticed some rabbits in that field on our way back from Cirencester, so I just crept off in the dark and found a hole, and took a strong stick and drove that into the ground, and then fixed the wire to it with the noose open, like this, so that the rabbit would run right into it when it came out. And it did! Poaching's frightfully simple."
"Yes," said Horace, "but it wants courage."
"Oh, yes," said Jack lightly. "Of course one mustn't be a fool or a coward."
It was arranged that Janet and Jack and Robert and Hester should go to church, and Mary and the others stay behind to cook. The boys walked, but Janet and Hester were driven in by the farmer in his chaise. Janet had a rather uncomfortable moment at the beginning of the sermon, for the text was taken from Matthew xxii, where the piece of money is produced, and the question asked, "Whose is this image and superscription?" Of course they all thought simultaneously of the old Irishwoman, and gave Janet a quick glance. She was very glad that Kink (who was a Dissenter) was not with them to fix his old laughing eye upon her.
Mary had worked very hard over the Sunday dinner, and a great surprise was waiting for the four church-goers—nothing less than a beefsteak pudding with the most perfect soft crust and heaps of juice; and afterwards pancakes. The farmer's wife sent down some strawberries and cream, so that it was a real feast. The only one of them that was not hungry was Mary, who was too hot and tired of cooking to be able to eat much.
In spite of this huge and momentous dinner, all the children went out on Sunday afternoon to explore the neighbourhood, except Hester, who said she had something very important to do and begged to be allowed to remain alone in the Slowcoach. Kink said that he would stay there, too.
On the other side of Cirencester is a very beautiful park, with a broad avenue through it from the gates right in the town itself. The farmer's wife had told them of its attractions, and also of a ruined house known as Alfred's Hall, and a point called the Seven Ways where seven green avenues met, and a canal that ran through a tunnel, and, all within the possibilities of good walkers, the source of the Thames itself. "And," said she, "after you have seen that—the tiny spring which makes that wonderful river that runs right through London—oh, I've been to London in my time!—you can come back to Cirencester by the Fosse Way—the Roman road to Bath." They could not, of course, see all these things, but they went to the ruined house, which was very romantic and exactly the place for Hester had she only been with them; and they roamed about the park, which was very vast and wonderful.
They had a little adventure, too, for as they were walking along, on the way back—coming back, of course, by a different way, for Robert could not bear the thought of not doing so—Mary chanced to say, with reference to the plans for the future which Robert was describing:
"To-morrow to fresh fields and pastures new,"
that being her idea of the last line of Milton's "Lycidas," which they had all learned quite recently.
"Not 'fresh fields,'" Janet corrected, "'fresh woods.'"
"'Fields,'" said Mary.
"'Woods,'" said Janet.
"I'm sure it's 'fields,'" said Mary.
"But it's silly," said Janet, "to say 'fresh fields and pastures new,' because they mean the same thing. 'Fresh woods' would mean something different."
"I can't help it," said Mary; "that's Milton's affair. 'Fresh fields.'"
Janet called to Robert. "Is it 'fresh fields and pastures new,' or 'fresh woods and pastures new'?" she asked him.
"'Fresh fields,'" he said.
Janet asked Jack. "I don't know," he said, "but 'fresh woods' sounds more sensible."
"Oh, dear," said Janet, "I wish we had a Milton!"
"Well, we haven't," said Robert, "and you're not likely to find one at Cirencester to-day, unless, of course, the vicar has one."
"Oh, yes," said Janet, "of course—the vicar. He's certain to have one."
"But who'll ask him?" said Horace.
"Janet will," said Mary.
"Oh, no," said Janet.
"Well, it's your affair," said Robert.
"Not more than Mary's," said Janet. "Mary, will you ask him?"
"No," said Mary, "I don't think I could. Not the vicar. I might be willing to ask the curate."
"What a ripping idea!" said Jack. "Of course the curate would be much easier. We'll ask where he lives."
They did so at a small tobacconist's that was open, and found that the curate had rooms at Myrtle Villa, quite close by.
They therefore marched towards Myrtle Villa, but first arranged to draw lots to see who should ring the bell and make the inquiry. They tore up paper of different sizes, and it was agreed that the holders of the longest and the shortest pieces should go—the longest to put the question, the shortest to ring and lend support. The result was that Mary drew the longest and Gregory the smallest.
Gregory was furious. "I don't even know what it's all about," he complained.
They told him.
"How rotten!" he said. "What's it matter?"
Mary, however, led him off to the house, and he rang the bell with vigour.
A smiling girl opened the door and asked what they wanted.
"Is the curate at home?" Mary asked.
The girl said that he was.
"Will you ask him if he will speak to us for a moment?" said Mary.
"What about?" asked the girl. "He has a friend with him."
"I don't think you'd understand if we told you," said Mary.
"I must know what it's about," said the girl. "He doesn't like to be disturbed on Sunday afternoons."
"Has he got a lot of books—poetry books?" Gregory asked.
"Yes," said the girl, "heaps."
"Then it's about Milton," said Mary.
"Milton the baker!" exclaimed the girl. "He's not dead, is he?"
"Milton the poet," said Mary.
"I'm all in a maze," said the girl. "I don't know what you're talking about. But I suppose I'd better tell him."
The girl left them on the mat and knocked at a door just inside.
"Come in," said a man's voice.
"Please, sir," said the girl, "there are two children asking about someone named Milton."
The owner of the voice laughed. "Are they?" he said. "Well, they've come to the right shop." And then the door opened wider and a tall and handsome young man came out, dressed in a cricket blazer over a clergyman's waistcoat and collar, and smoking a large pipe.
"What's all this about Milton?" he said cheerily. "What Milton? Not the poet?"
"Yes," said Mary.
"Oh, I say, this is too good," said the young clergyman. "Vernon," he called out, "come here and see a deputation from Milton."
Another young man joined him, equally pleasant looking, and they all shook hands.
"Come inside," said the young clergyman.
"There are four others waiting in the road," said Gregory. "Then fetch them in too," said the young clergyman. And Janet and Robert and Jack and Horace were brought in.
"Now," said the young clergyman, "have some tea." And he rang the bell and ordered enough tea for eight.
When the girl had gone, he asked for full particulars, and then gave his verdict.
"'Fresh woods and pastures new.'"
"Oh, rubbish!" said Vernon. "I've always learned 'fresh fields and pastures new.'"
"That's what I say," said Mary.
"And so do I," said Robert and Horace.
"I think YOU'RE right," said Janet to the young clergyman.
"Well," he said, "I'll look it up." And he began to hunt for Milton on his shelves.
"Oh, not yet!" said Vernon. "Let's have some fun first. Let's see who are the 'fielders' and who are the 'wooders.' All 'fielders' this way."
Mary, Robert, and Horace ranged themselves beside him, leaving Janet and Jack with the young clergyman, whom Vernon called Rod.
Gregory looked at both sides, and did not move.
"Haven't you any views about it?" asked Vernon.
"No," said Gregory; "I never heard the thing before. What does it matter?"
"Very well, then," said Rod; "here's the tea. You pour it out for us. I like three lumps of sugar in mine. Now," he continued, "the rout of the 'fielders' is about to begin. Of course it's 'woods.' Why, I can see the word now in Milton's own handwriting, as I used to see it in the Library at Trinity."
"I'm so sure it's 'fields,'" said Vernon, "that I declare myself willing to go without cake for tea if it isn't."
"Will you put half a crown in the plate next Sunday if it's 'woods'?" said Rod.
"Oh, I say, that's a bit stiff," said Vernon. "Half a crown?"
"Very well, then," said Rod, "two bob. Will you put two bob in the plate next Sunday if it's 'woods'?"
"Yes, I will," said Vernon. "But if it's 'fields,' what will you do? You mayn't take a shilling out?"
"No," said Rod; "if it's 'fields' I'll eat my best hat."
"I hope it's fields,'" said Gregory.
"Horrid little boy!" said Rod. "But now we'll see."
He opened Milton slowly, and turned over the pages of "Lycidas." "Ha! ha!" he said; "no cake for Charles Vernon, Esquire, and two bob for Mother Church. And my best hat saved. Listen:
"'At last he rose and twitch'd his mantle blue:
To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.'"
"No cake!" groaned Vernon. "Repulsive children!" he continued tragically. "Why did you knock at this unhappy door and ask your foolish question here? Are there no other houses in Cirencester? No cake! No cake!"
They screamed with laughter.
"I like them," said Rod. "They're nice children. I hope they'll come again. And now for a large tea, with plenty of cake for all but one of us."
They would have liked to stay a long time, for Rod and Vernon were very kind and amusing, but Janet had Hester on her mind, left alone in the Slowcoach; and so directly tea was finished they said good-bye.
When Hester was told about their adventure, she said: "How silly you all are!"
"Why?" they asked indignantly.
"For two reasons," said Hester. "One is that it is, of course, 'fresh woods.' Anyone ought to know that. And the other is that we've got the 'Blue Poetry Book' with it in here in the caravan."
"That doesn't matter," said Gregory. "We met a jolly decent clergyman."
What Hester's great business had been Janet soon learned, for as soon as they were alone Hester slipped some sheets of paper into Janet's hand and asked her to read them very privately. Janet retired to the boudoir end of the caravan and read. It was a poem entitled:
ODE TO THE REV. FRANCIS GASTREEE
(Dedicated to Mr. Nicholas Imber)
O thou most base,
Who hadst possession of the dwelling-place
Of William Shakespeare, Stratford's loveliest son,
What is it thou hast done?
Thou shouldst have treasur'd it, as in a case
We keep a diamond or other jewel.
Instead of which thou didst it quite erase,
O wicked man, O fool!
What should be done to thee?
Hang'ed upon a tree?
Or in the pillory
Placed for all to pelt with eggs and bitter zest?
Aye, that were best.
Would that thou wert i' th' pillory this moment
And Stratford all in foment,
Thou knave, thou cad,
Thou everything that's bad!
HESTER MARGARET AVORY.
Janet said it was splendid, after you had got hold of the difficult rhyming idea.
"That's because it's an ode," said Hester. "Odes go like that. All jumpy. And you mustn't say 'you' in an ode. You must say 'thou."'
"But what shall you do with it?" Janet asked.
"I want to send it to Mr. Imber," said Hester. "He said something ought to be done. He gave me his address; do you think we could post it this evening?"
Janet said they could, and they walked to the post-office and sent it off, together with a letter to Mrs. Avory, and picture postcards for Runcie and Collins. The budget for X. they kept, as they had not brought his address with them.
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