In my childhood days it wasn't uncommon for adults to tell fibs about children, to children. Here's one told to me by my maiden aunt, Kathleen:
"Birds in their little nest agree,
it is a shameful sight,
when children of one family
fall out, and chide, and fight."
Of course I didn't know that they were fibs, little moral tales for our edification; and I have since written an affectionate poem about aunt Kathleen: "A Hard Bargain", that dwells on another side of her character. She was a wheeler-and-dealer in Heaven, striking bargains with the angels and saints; Mary and Anthony come readily to mind. Under their statues she would leave promissory notes, (ten shillings in old money) to be precise, with instructions by way of prayer, that as soon as they. Mary and Anthony that is, had done whatever it was that she wanted them to do, the money would go to a good cause, or causes, that she knew the Virgin and Saint Anthony would approve of.
But now that I am old, and wise, and regardless of anything that aunt Kathleen might have said, I can tell you for certain that the behaviour of some birds is shocking, as here, where the house-martin having done all the hard work, and is ready to move in, finds that the house-sparrow has got in ahead of her, and is claiming squatters rights. What a wonderful moral tale, (from so many angles), if only aunt Kathleen had known about it, which is why I am telling it to you, as told to me, by Gilbert White:
"About the middle of May, if the weather be fine, the martin begins to think in earnest of providing a mansion for its family. The crust or shell of this nest seems to be formed of such dirt or loam as comes most readily to hand, and is tempered and wrought together with little bits of broken straws to render it tough and tenacious. As this bird often builds against a perpendicular wall without any projecting ledge under, it requires its utmost efforts to get the first foundation firmly fixed, so that it may safely carry the superstructure. On this occasion the bird not only clings with its claws, but partly supports itself by strongly inclining its tail against the wall, making that a fulcrum; and thus steadied, it works and plasters the materials into the face of the brick or stone. But then, that this work may not, while it is soft and green, pull itself down by its own weight, the provident architect has prudence and forbearance enough not to advance her work too fast; but by building only in the morning, and dedicating the rest of the day to food and amusement, gives it sufficient time to dry and harden. . . . .By this method after about ten or twelve days is formed a hemispheric nest with a small aperture towards the top, strong, compact, and warm; and perfectly fitted for all the purposes for which it was intended. But then nothing is more common than for the house-sparrow, as soon as the shell is finished, to seize on it as its own, to eject the owner, and to line it after its own manner." *
And thinking of all of this I am reminded of another perspective on childhood that was around at the time. It was to do with Christopher Robin - a very very upper- class little boy, who, kneeling by the side of his bed, struggled with his night prayers: "When I open my fingers a little bit more, / I can see Nanny's dressing-gown on the door, / it's a beautiful blue but it hasn't a hood, / God bless nanny! and make her good. . . ." And what intrigues me now about this song, is just how much myself and Christopher had in common, because it was while saying my night prayers, that I suddenly had the notion to tip Saint Anthony on his side so as to see what was underneath, and that was that, for, "forgetting my prayers completely," I went looking for more statues, and then, and in my pajamas, and to aunt Kathleen's consternation, I came leaping down the stairs to tell everyone of what I had found.
Something else that was around at the time, and that had nothing whatever to do with piety, or moral rectitude, but rather with the capacity of the child to see through the pretensions of adults, - and be downright annoying with it, was the magical poem by Lewis Carroll, "You Are Old, Father William". In the telling of this story the boy, of course, could be any boy, but whoever he is, and wherever he come from, his father is always William.
"You are old father William" the young man said
"and your hair has become very white;
and yet you incessantly stand on your head -
Do you think at your age it is right?"
At first father William was patient in his replies, but when the boy becomes too personal and marvels at his father's ability to balance an eel on the end of his nose, - despite his failing eyesight, it all became too much for the old man:
"I have answered three questions, and that is enough,"
Said his father. "Don't give yourself airs!
Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?
Be off, or I'll kick you downstairs!
And lastly, this, the opening words of a song that have to do with the child's capacity to wonder; and besides being a song, the construct of the words are such, that it is also an exercise in diction. As a boy soprano I sang it in a competition at which, Sir Malcolm Sargent, was present as a guest of the adjudicator. In the competition I came second, and as Sir Malcolm was there as a guest, I have no means of knowing what he thought of my singing.
"Is it I wonder a rum thing,
oe nothing to wonder upon,
that whenever a man's doing something,
there's always a boy looking on.
He may stand for hours like a dumb thing,
but this can be counted upon,
that wherever a man's doing something,
there's always a boy looking on."
So why am I telling you all this?
Well those who have read my previous blogs, will know that under the current COVIC-19 restrictions, of which "social distancing" is a part, I now take Amber for her morning walk at 6 am, and her evening walk at 8. Walking at these times makes it easier, in terms of the virus, to stay safe; but such is the solitude in the residential streets in the early evening, that I couldn't help but be reminded of the story of the "Pied Piper of Hamelin"; for, not only are there no children in sight, but they are not to be heard either, in the many private gardens as we pass. They have simply disappeared.
__________
© Cormac E.McCloskey
A Hard Bargain here
The Natural History of Selborne *
By Gilbert White (1720-1793)
My edition: 1900.
Still readily available i.e. Penguin Classics, and others.
Blog: Between The Covers here
You Old, Father William: here
The Pied Piper of Hamelin here
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