By Kenneth Grahame
THAT nature has her moments of sympathy with man hasbeen noted often enough，—and generally as a new discovery；to us， who had never known any other condition of things，it seemed entirely right and fitting that the wind sang andsobbed in the poplar tops， and in the lulls of it， sudden spirtsof rain spattered the already dusty roads， on that blusterousMarch day when Edward and I awaited， on the stationplatform， the arrival of the new tutor. Needless to say， thisarrangement had been planned by an aunt， from some fondidea that our shy， innocent natures would unfold themselvesduring the walk from the station， and that on the revelationof each other’s more solid qualities that must then inevitablyensue， an enduring friendship springing from mutual respectmight be firmly based. A pretty dream，—nothing more. ForEdward， who foresaw that the brunt of tutorial oppressionwould have to be borne by him， was sulky， monosyllabic， anddetermined to be as negatively disagreeable as good mannerswould permit. It was therefore evident that I would have to bespokesman and purveyor of hollow civilities， and I was nonethe more amicable on that account； all courtesies， welcomes，explanations， and other court-chamberlain kind of business，being my special aversion. There was much of the tempestuousMarch weather in the hearts of both of us， as we sullenlyglowered along the carriage-windows of the slackening train.
One is apt， however， to misjudge the special difficulties ofa situation； and the reception proved， after all， an easy andinformal matter. In a trainful so uniformly bucolic， a tutor wasreadily recognizable； and his portmanteau had been consignedto the luggage-cart， and his person conveyed into the lane，before I had discharged one of my carefully consideredsentences. I breathed more easily， and， looking up at our newfriend as we stepped out together， remembered that we hadbeen counting on something altogether more arid， scholastic，and severe. A boyish eager face and a petulant pince nez，—untidy hair，—a head of constant quick turns like a robin’s， andvoice that kept breaking into alto，—these were all very strangeand new， but not in the least terrible.
He proceeded jerkily through the village， with glances onthis side and that； and “Charming，” he broke out presently；“quite too charming and delightful！”
I had not counted on this sort of thing， and glanced for helpto Edward， who， hands in pockets， looked grimly down hisnose. He had taken his line， and meant to stick to it.
Meantime our friend had made an imaginary spy-glass outof his fist， and was squinting through it at something I couldnot perceive. “What an exquisite bit！” he burst out； “fifteenthcentury，—no，—yes， it is！”
I began to feel puzzled， not to say alarmed. It remindedme of the butcher in the Arabian Nights， whose commonjoints， displayed on the shop-front， took to a started public theappearance of dismembered humanity. This man seemed to seethe strangest things in our dull， familiar surroundings.
“Ah！” he broke out again， as we jogged on betweenhedgerows： “and that field now—backed by the downs—withthe rain-cloud brooding over it，—that’s all David Cox—everybit of it！”
“That field belongs to Farmer Larkin，” I explained politely，for of course he could not be expected to know. “I’ll take youover to Farmer Cox’s tomorrow， if he’s a friend of yours； butthere’s nothing there to see.”
Edward， who was hanging sullenly behind， made a face atme， as if to say， “What sort of lunatic have we got here？”
“It has the true pastoral character， this country of yours，”
went on our enthusiast： “with just that added touch in cottageand farmstead， relics of a bygone art， which makes our Englishlandscape so divine， so unique！”
Really this grasshopper was becoming a burden. Thesefamiliar fields and farms， of which we knew every blade andstick， had done nothing that I knew of to be bespattered withadjectives in this way. I had never thought of them as divine，unique， or anything else. They just were—， they were well justthemselves， and there was an end of it. Despairingly I joggedEdward in the ribs， as a sign to start rational conversation， buthe only grinned and continued obdurate.
You can see the house now，” I remarked presently； “and that’sSelina， chasing the donkey in the paddock，—or is it the donkeychasing Selina？ I can’t quite make out； but it’s them， anyhow.”
Needless to say， he exploded with a full charge of adjectives.
“Exquisite！” he rapped out； “so mellow and harmonious！
and so entirely in keeping！” （I could see from Edward’s facethat he was thinking who ought to be in keeping.） “Suchpossibilities of romance， now， in those old gables！”
“If you mean the garrets，” I said， “there’s a lot of oldfurniture in them； and one is generally full of apples； and thebats get in sometimes， under the eaves， and flop about till wego up with hair-brushes and things and drive ‘em out； butthere’s nothing else in them that I know of.”
“Oh， but there must be more than bats，” he cried. “Don’t tellme there are no ghosts. I shall be deeply disappointed if therearen’t any ghosts.”
I did not think it worth while to reply， feeling really unequalto this sort of conversation； besides， we were nearing thehouse， when my task would be ended. Aunt Eliza met us at thedoor， and in the cross-fire of adjectives that ensued—both ofthem talking at once， as grown-up folk have a habit of doing—we two slipped round to the back of the house， and speedilyput several solid acres between us and civilization， for fear ofbeing ordered in to tea in the drawing-room. By the time wereturned， our new importation had gone up to dress for dinner，so till the morrow at least we were free of him.
