One of the wandering ducks has returned (see Thursday’s post), weary and repentant, the under part of her body white and clean and the upper all red from contact with iron ore, mines of which line the banks of our river. The truant bird has lain in the same spot all day, her humble mien eloquently declaring, “I have seen enough of the great wide world. No more will I stray from this safe nook where food is plentiful, although the water should be contained in an old frying pan and a rusty milk bowl.”
I have been trying not to rise from my writing to answer the rat a tat at the back door but during the long summer days everybody else in the house seems to find a job outdoors and one might as well rise as sit and wonder if there is anyone else going to attend. There’s a pen’orth of milk wanted; then a shillingsworth of eggs, a message about some carting; an urchin wants a pen’orth of flowers. The most aggravating are two bits of girls who want a drink of water. Of course that is not what is really wanted. There’s something else they are after but I did not stop to enquire what.