w the spirit of dereliction stole
into the life of Godwin Peak. It was all owing to the family
gipsyings. 'As a result of the family's removal first from London to
the farm, and then into Twybridge, Godwin had no friends of old
standing. A boy reaps advantage from the half-parental kindness of men
and women who have watched his growth from infancy; in general it
affects him as a steadying influence, keeping before his mind the
social bonds to which his behaviour owes allegiance. Godwin had no
ties which bound him strongly to any district.' He was like a ship
that belongs to no port in particular, and that drifts hither and
thither about the world as fugitive commissions may arise.

The finest of all the fine arts is the art of putting up with nasty
things. It is not very nice to have all your hens drowned. You get
fond of hens. And apart from the financial loss involved, there is a
sense of bereavement in seeing all your choice Dorkings, your favourite
Leghorns, your lovely Orpingtons, or your beautiful Silver Wyandottes
all lying dead and bedraggled in the muddy cellar. Few things are more
disconcerting. And yet I am writing this article for no other purpose
than to assert that the best thing to do, if you must have hens, is to
bury these as quickly as possible and send down to the market for a
fresh supply. It is certainly gratifying to one's pride as a tenant to
feel that one has a grievance and can now show his glorious
independence of the landlord. There is always a pleasurable piquancy
in being able to resign, or dismiss somebody, or give notice. But my
interest is every bit as well worth considering as my dignity. And
whilst my dignity clamours to get even with the landlord, my interest
reminds me of the swans and the willows, the boating and the fishing.
My dignity shouts angrily about my dead fens; but my interest whispers
significantly about my living children. So that, all things
considered, it is better to bury the hens and the hatchet at the same
time. I may quit my riverside residence and have a waterproof fowl-run
in another street; but when I see somebody else taking his children out
in my old boat, I shall only bite my lip and wish that I had quietly
restocked my chicken-run. It may be a most iniquitous proceeding on
the part of the landlord to allow the river to flood my cellar but,
thinking it over calmly, I am convinced that it is my duty as a
Christian to forgive him. And it always