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    The Diary of a Goose Girl
    The Diary of a Goose Girl
    The Diary of a Goose Girl
    Ebook137 pages1 hour

    The Diary of a Goose Girl

    By Claude A. Shepperson and Kate Douglas Smith Wiggin

    2/5

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    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateSep 1, 1999

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    Reviews for The Diary of a Goose Girl

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    • 2/5
      I got bored reading about geese and chickens- The Egg and I is a much more entertaining read on the subject.
    • 2/5
      I got bored reading about geese and chickens- The Egg and I is a much more entertaining read on the subject.

    Book preview

    The Diary of a Goose Girl - Claude A. Shepperson

    The Diary of a Goose Girl, by Kate Douglas Smith Wiggin

    The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Diary of a Goose Girl, by Kate Douglas

    Smith Wiggin, Illustrated by Claude A. Shepperson

    This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with

    almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or

    re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included

    with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

    Title: The Diary of a Goose Girl

    Author: Kate Douglas Smith Wiggin

    Release Date: May 15, 2007 [eBook #1867]

    Language: English

    Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)

    ***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DIARY OF A GOOSE GIRL***

    Transcribed from the 1902 Gay and Bird edition by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk

    THE DIARY OF A GOOSE GIRL

    by

    KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN

    with illustrations by

    CLAUDE A. SHEPPERSON

    GAY AND BIRD

    22 bedford street, strand

    LONDON

    1902

    TO THE HENS, DUCKS, AND GEESE

    WHO SO KINDLY GAVE ME

    SITTINGS FOR THESE

    SKETCHES THE BOOK

    IS GRATEFULLY

    INSCRIBED

    CHAPTER I.

    Thornycroft Farm, near Barbury Green, July 1, 190-.

    In alluding to myself as a Goose Girl, I am using only the most modest of my titles; for I am also a poultry-maid, a tender of Belgian hares and rabbits, and a shepherdess; but I particularly fancy the rôle of Goose Girl, because it recalls the German fairy tales of my early youth, when I always yearned, but never hoped, to be precisely what I now am.

    As I was jolting along these charming Sussex roads the other day, a fat buff pony and a tippy cart being my manner of progression, I chanced upon the village of Barbury Green.

    One glance was enough for any woman, who, having eyes to see, could see with them; but I made assurance doubly sure by driving about a little, struggling to conceal my new-born passion from the stable-boy who was my escort.  Then, it being high noon of a cloudless day, I descended from the trap and said to the astonished yokel: You may go back to the Hydropathic; I am spending a month or two here.  Wait a moment—I’ll send a message, please!

    I then scribbled a word or two to those having me in custody.

    I am very tired of people, the note ran, and want to rest myself by living a while with things.  Address me (if you must) at Barbury Green post-office, or at all events send me a box of simple clothing there—nothing but shirts and skirts, please.  I cannot forget that I am only twenty miles from Oxenbridge (though it might be one hundred and twenty, which is the reason I adore it), but I rely upon you to keep an honourable distance yourselves, and not to divulge my place of retreat to others, especially to—you know whom!  Do not pursue me.  I will never be taken alive!

    Having cut, thus, the cable that bound me to civilisation, and having seen the buff pony and the dazed yokel disappear in a cloud of dust, I looked about me with what Stevenson calls a fine, dizzy, muddle-headed joy, the joy of a successful rebel or a liberated serf.  Plenty of money in my purse—that was unromantic, of course, but it simplified matters—and nine hours of daylight remaining in which to find a lodging.

    The village is one of the oldest, and I am sure it must be one of the quaintest, in England.  It is too small to be printed on the map (an honour that has spoiled more than one Arcadia), so pray do not look there, but just believe in it, and some day you may be rewarded by driving into it by chance, as I did, and feel the same Columbus thrill running, like an electric current, through your veins.  I withhold specific geographical information in order that you may not miss that Columbus thrill, which comes too seldom in a world of railroads.

    The Green is in the very centre of Barbury village, and all civic, political, family, and social life converges there, just at the public duck-pond—a wee, sleepy lake with a slope of grass-covered stones by which the ducks descend for their swim.

    The houses are set about the Green like those in a toy village.  They are of old brick, with crumpled, up-and-down roofs of deep-toned red, and tufts of stonecrop growing from the eaves.  Diamond-paned windows, half open, admit the sweet summer air; and as for the gardens in front, it would seem as if the inhabitants had nothing to do but work in them, there is such a riotous profusion of colour and bloom.  To add to the effect, there are always pots of flowers hanging from the trees, blue flax and yellow myrtle; and cages of Java sparrows and canaries singing joyously, as well they may in such a paradise.

    The shops are idyllic, too, as if Nature had seized even the man of trade and made him subservient to her designs.  The general draper’s, where I fitted myself out for a day or two quite easily, is set back in a tangle of poppies and sweet peas, Madonna lilies and Canterbury bells.  The shop itself has a gay awning, and what do you think the draper has suspended from it, just as a picturesque suggestion to the passer-by?  Suggestion I call it, because I should blush to use the word advertisement in describing anything so dainty and decorative.  Well, then, garlands of shoes, if you please!  Baby bootlets of bronze; tiny ankle-ties in yellow, blue, and scarlet kid; glossy patent-leather pumps shining in the sun, with festoons of slippers at the corners, flowery slippers in imitation Berlin wool-work.  If you make this picture in your mind’s-eye, just add a window above the awning, and over the fringe of marigolds in the window-box put the draper’s wife dancing a rosy-cheeked baby.  Alas! my words are only black and white, I fear, and this picture needs a palette drenched in primary colours.

    Along the street, a short distance, is the old watchmaker’s.  Set in the hedge at the gate is a glass case with Multum

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