It is a strange use of my Labor Day leisure to be proofreading computer-generated text derived from photographs of Ashley Sterne's comic articles reprinted in Australian newspapers during the years of World War I. After posting this blog entry, I shall devote the rest of the day to less tedious activities.
The following articles involve household pets and small creatures (the chicken, the silkworm, and the bee) on which Mr. Sterne hoped to base a cottage industry. The dates shown are the earliest dates found for republication of the articles in Australian newspapers.
The articles include the following:
Domestic Pets [Feb 1916]
Muddled Muzzling [Dec 1919]
Ashley Sterne's Chicken: Experiences as an Amateur Egg Grower [Nov 1915]
My Goldfish [August 1916]
Sidney, My Silkworm
[Nov 1915]
About My Bee [Oct 1915]
To Bee or Not To Bee [Jul 1916]
DOMESTIC PETS
By
Ashley Sterne.
One of the oldest customs
associated with the home circle is the keeping of pets. From time immemorial
has it been maintained. Noah's addiction to animals of all kinds is a by-word,
though there are some people who admit that, from the modern point of view, he
rather overdid it. Cleopatra possessed either a pet asp or a pet wasp (my
memory is somewhat shaky on this point), and King Charles' predilection for
spaniels is familiar to all of us. Robinson Crusoe is probably the first
recorded instance of the domestication of the parrot, the goat, and the
cannibal; while the name of one, Mary (whose patronymic is unfortunately wrapt
in oblivion) will forever be linked with her ubiquitous and parambulatory lamb.
Coming to more modern times, Mde. Sarah Bernhardt still owns, I believe, a pet
panther, Mr. Gluckstein a tame salmon, and the Laird of Guinspeth and Booles
has, at his seat in Strathspey, a brace of pibrochs that follow him about
wherever he goes.
But for the most part, nowadays, we
exercise a very restricted choice in the matter of our pets. Dogs and cats
decorate our gardens and our eaves; and various birds, humanely removed from
the wicked wiles and lures of the boundless heavens and transferred to roomy,
airy cages about four inches square and six inches high, add touches of
brightness and color to our front windows. Occasionally we strike out upon less
common lines with goldfish, newts, tortoises, or the more refined breeds of
mice and rats. A lady of my acquaintance even adopted a chameleon, which she
used to carry about with her attached by a thin silk chain to her waist. She
would probably still own it but for the fact that she was once misguided enough
to take her pet with her to a dance. All went well until the first Bunny Hug,
when, I regret to say, owing to the fervor with which her partner embraced her,
the unfortunate reptile met with a violent death by congestion, and thereafter
Cuthbert was of no use to his mistress, except in the comparatively
insignificant role of book marker. Then, too, I knew a man who, during a severe
illness, kept a large green spider with crimson spots which, he affirmed, was
so devoted to him that it never left his counterpane. But, unfortunately, when
he got better, the animal unaccountably disappeared, and a diligent search of
his premises utterly failed to reveal the whereabouts of his elusive little
companion.
When I remember the comparatively
small number of indigenous and exotic fauna that bring life and brightness to
our homes, I cannot but wonder that some enterprising individual does not make
an attempt to popularise other species. For instance, why has nobody yet
started a penguin? This quaint bird would make an amusing pet, and I can
imagine no more practical method of enlivening a dull and morose family circle
than the introduction therein of this highly diverting fowl. The little trouble
entailed by keeping the bird for the greater part of the time on a block of ice
in the scullery, occasionally swimming it in the bath and procuring a specially
frigid brand of sardines and shrimps for its consumption, would be amply repaid
by the wealth of affection and devotion that would doubtless be inspired in the
creature's breast.
Again, a nice, quiet, well-behaved
animal is the oyster, with none of the rowdyism of the dog or the subtle
intrusiveness of the cat. True, it can not pipe like a bullfinch or chatter
like a parrot; but, on the other hand, it has potentialities of a valuable
nature possessed by no other animal. Pearls, as you are probably aware, are
caused by some foreign substance irritating the oyster; and in order to goad
your pet into the requisite frenzy for pearl-producing, it will only be
necessary to irritate the gentle mollusc, as humanely as possible, at regular
intervals, and eventually—in return for al1 the pains expended upon it—it will
present you with a jewel worthy of exhibiting, suitably mounted, amid the folds
of the most expensive silk tie. Moreover, when too old for work, your little
friend will form a most succulent and appetising hors d'oeuvre.
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MUDDLED MUZZLING. Will Dog-Keeping Become
Compulsory?
By
Ashley Sterne.
A few evenings ago Paggs, the man
who lives in the flat above mine, dropped in to tell me he'd had a lot of
trouble getting his dog fitted with a muzzle.
I don't know why he told me. I
scarcely know his dog by sight.
However, it appeared that Paggs had
been to the only two muzzle shops in the neighborhood, and had left the first
in high dudgeon and the second in a taxi-cab. At the first shop the muzzles
were so small that only by using a hammer could they get it over the dog's
nose. The dog retaliated by biting a large piece out of the hammer. At the
other shop the muzzles were all so large that the dog fell through the bars.
An Attempt to be Funny.
Now, I dislike being caught
napping, so when Paggs had gone I wrapped myself in deep meditation and a pink
dressing gown cut rather full in the skirt, and waited for a brain-wave. It
came with the milk, and immediately after breakfast next morning I went
straight off to the muzzle-merchant.
"I want a muzzle," I
began.
"Certainly, sir; what size do
you want?"
"It's not for me," I
explained hastily. "It's for a dog."
"What's the size of the dog,
then?'" asked the shopman.
"That," I said, "I
regret to say I cannot tell you. It's a secret. Besides, I thought muzzles were
ready-made, and not to measure."
The man began to look anxious.
"However," I added,
"'probably a muzzle to hold about a couple of pints would meet the
case."
The muzzle-merchant looked more
anxious than ever.
"How will this muzzle
do?" he asked.
Doing Things by Halves.
I examined the one he had thrust
into my hand.
"It's got a lot of holes in
it," I observed. "How do you account for that?"
"Moth." he said.
"But if you think there are too many, or that your dog will feel a draught
and get neuralgia in his gums, you can always use it as a soup-strainer."
"And is this"—I indicated
the largest hole—"where the dog's face goes in?"
"It is," answered the
man. "Did you imagine it went over its tail?"
"No." I said. "but I
cannot help wondering why, while they are about it, the Board of Agriculture
don't muzzle the whole dog. But that's the Government's muddling way. They
always do things by halves. Look at the days of the meat shortage, when
butchers were only allowed to kill half a sheep at a time. Why do we only have
half holidays on Saturdays? This Coalition Government needs—"
"Ten-and-six. please."
said the muzzle-merchant, hanging a parcel on my forefinger.
An Inclusive Price.
I lifted my eyebrows until they
disappeared under my hat and got mixed up with my parting. "Surely—"
I began.
"That price," hastily
explained the man, "not only includes the wire, but also all the holes and
the loop in the string of the parcel."
"Thanks," I said, much
relieved. "I thought at first that you were profiteering." And I went
home.
I have already said I dislike to be
caught napping, and the position is now this; Paggs has a dog, but no muzzle to
fit it. When he bought the dog he had no idea he would ever require a muzzle. I
have a muzzle, but no dog to put in it. When I bought the muzzle I never
thought I should ever require a dog. But in these days one never knows what the
Government will do next. They may make dog keeping compulsory in order to get
fresh revenue from dog-licenses. Then if they do, I shall be prepared. I shall
merely have to get a dog that will fit my muzzle, and every child knows that
dogs are made in a much greater variety of sizes than muzzles.
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MY GOLDFISH
By
Ashley Sterne
My passion for animals has found a
new outlet in my latest.acquisition—a solid 24-carat goldfish named Godfrey. I
first saw him a few weeks ago in a naturalist's shop-window. He was swimming
about in a bowl of water, and as soon as he spied me looking at him with my
friendly eye he strove with all his might to burst his bowl and dash through
the shop window into my arms. At such signs of affection what else could I do
but enter the shop and inquire Godfrey's purchase-price?
"Umpence," said the
naturalist, who was busy stuffing a butterfly which, he told me, had been shot
in Brazil by a noted big game hunter.
"Done," I said, slapping
the money on the counter.
"You are," remarked the
naturalist. "Shall I do him up for you?"
"No, thanks," I replied.
"I'll just lead him home on a string." Of course, this was only my
pleasantry. I really carried him home in his bowl. I was very careful to avoid
spilling any of the water, but Fate was against me, and when I was still a
hundred yards from home a stubborn fire-alarm post refused to move out of my
way and ran into me. The result was that Godfrey was left gasping in very
low-tide at the bottom of the bowl. Ye gods, how I ran!
Steam-rollers, bath-chairs,
telegraph boys—I left them all behind, and just as Godfrey was going down for
the third time I managed to get him under the bathroom tap. You should have
seen him flap his gills and waggle his tail as the reviving fluid ran into his
works! And the look of gratitude he gave me I shall never forget. That and
"Calais" will one day be found graven on my heart. When his pulse had
had time to steady down a bit I put my hand in the bowl to pat him, and he
actually licked it. Such was the exciting nature of Godfrey's entrance into my
household.
Next I sought out a fitting abode
for him. I possessed a nice aquarium which had once contained a newt, but
which, since Ewart's unfortunate demise—he ate the cord which I had provided
for him to sit upon when he got tired of swimming—I had had no occasion to use.
(I called him Ewart for two reasons: firstly, because my housekeeper always
referred to him as a "new-ert" instead of a newt, as ignorant people
do, and I thought it would save possible misunderstandings if I gave him a name
that resembled "new-ert" as much as "new-ert" resembled
"newt"; and secondly, because, in certain aspects, he reminded me
strongly of the late Mr.Gladstone. Otherwise it was my intention to call him
Nigel.)
Well, I fetched the aquarium down
from the lumber-room and proceeded to fill it. It held about four gallons.
Then, when I had mopped up the cataclysm from the carpet and table, changed
into dry clothes, stopped the leak with putty, and refilled the aquarium, I put
Godfrey into it. He made a bee-line for the putty, at once (if a goldfish can
be strictly said to describe a bee-line); and attempted to dig little bits of
it off with his snout. It struck me that he was probably hungry; so I went into
the garden and excavated a nice thick worm, which I dropped into the aquarium,
and then started off to find an encore. When I returned, the nice thick worm was
eating Godfrey. This was most unexpected. I had no idea worms could be so
fierce and greedy. Hurriedly I divested myself of coat and boots, and boldly
plunged into the aquarium up to my elbow. It was but the work of a moment to
snatch Godfrey from those remorseless jaws, and to throw his assailant out of
the window with a dull, sickening thud. The crisis over. I suddenly remembered
that goldfish ought not to be fed with worms; it spoils their coat. Their
proper food is ants' eggs or vermicelli. Our ants, however, weren't laying just
then; but I fortunately found some vermicelli doing nothing at the bottom of a
disused milk-pudding, and I fed him with that. All this happened but a week or
so ago, yet even in that short time Godfrey has grown very devoted to me, and
whenever I approach the aquarium he rises to the surface, sticks his head out
of the water, and I tickle him behind the ear. Acushla, but he's a bonnie bit
fesh, as they say in Yarmouth when bloaters are in the bay.
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SIDNEY, MY SILKWORM
By
Ashley Sterne.
He first entered my household as a
young and innocent egg. Of course, he had no name then . He was just an
anonymous egg, and it seemed stupid to call a mere egg anything; though, upon
occasion, I had previously called our breakfast eggs by profane titles. His
name was given him the day be was born. This happened quite unexpectedly. I
left the egg as usual one night, safely reposing upon a piece of blotting paper
in a match box. The next morning it had hatched and my one ewe-silkworm was
crawling about the box raising frantic cries for nourishment.
I decided to call him Sidney. I
don't exactly know why I chose the name of Sidney; probably for the sake of
euphony. Then, the christening over, I at once went out and bought him a
lettuce. I also contemplated buying him a silver christening mug since he was
my god-silkworm, but I fortunately remembered that Sidney's life must perforce
be a drlnkless one, that to offer him liquid refreshment would be tanamount to
committing vermicide; that, were he given moist food even, he would swell up and
burst, and his career in the textile industry be ruined.
When I reached home I found Sidney
simply ravenous. He had eaten his egg-shell and a large piece of his blotting
paper and was just about to start on that part of the label of the box that
implores us to support home industries. So I quickly thrust a lettuce-leaf
between his jaws, and thus averted a
crisis.
At his birth Sidney was not quite
an eighth of an inch long, and weighed—well; I didn't know whether silkworms
were avoirdupois or troy, so I hesitated to weigh him by any of the recognised
standards; but he just balanced against a cigarette paper. However, by
sedulously plying him with lettuce I managed in a very short time materially to
increase his size, so that I soon found that when I wanted to look at him it
was no longer necessary to close the door and the window, and shut the register
in the chimney. And as Sidney grew so did my expectations; and I got to regard
him first as potential dress-socks, then as a potential neck-tie, and finally
as potential pyjamas.
Then one day I was called away from
home on urgent business, and I had to leave Sidney for twenty-four hours in the
care of my cook-general. I carefully explained to her that Sidney was not to be
stinted in the matter of meals. The more food he ate (I pointed out), the more
silk he would yield. (I don't know whether this is in strict accord with
fact. I know it isn't my own case,
because the more food I eat the less inclined I am to toil; and nothing
whatever would induce me to spin). I knew it would be useless to tell her to
give Sidney his lettuce dry, because her instincts as cook would impel her to
soak it in water without question. I
therefore hit upon the idea of giving Sidney mulberry leaves during my absence.
No cook-general, I argued, would ever dream of washing mulberry leaves. I had
no tree of my own, but my neighbor next door had one, and so I instructed the
girl to go and give my compliments to him, say I was in no hurry for the return
of my lawn mower, and could he oblige me with a few mulberry leaves? I then left Sidney with a light heart and a
heavy suitcase.
When I returned the following
afternoon I found my cook-general in tears. Between her sobs she managed to
stammer out that Sidney had turned black and burst.
"Did you soak his mulberry
leaves in water?" I .asked sternly.
"N-no," sobbed the girl.
"Should I have ought to?"
I overlooked her grammar, and bade
her tell me what had happened.
"When I came down this
morning," she began, "I saw that Master Sidney had nearly finished
'is lettuce, so after breakfast, as soon as ever it stopped rainin', I—
"I didn't wait to hear any
more. Thirty seconds later poor Sidney's remains were fertilising the soil in
my back garden.
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ABOUT MY BEE
By
Ashley Sterne
I have just bought an apiary. At
least, I think that's what it is called. It's a thing to put a bee in, you
know. Or is it a monkey-house? Really, I'm not quite sure. Anyhow, what I
actually ordered was a bee-hive, so it doesn't much matter what its technical
name is.
The fact is I am going to start a
bee for economic reasons. As you may have observed, nearly all our household
commodities have gone up in price since the war began, and it recently occurred
to me that it would be a good plan to develop the honey resources of the
country, and thus be independent of the cost of jam and marmalade. The idea
came to me yesterday when Bertram flew into my room and commenced to walk about
on the window-pane. Now the "busyness" of the bee is proverbial, and
it seemed to me rather odd that a busy bee could spare the time to fool around
on my window-pane when, according to all I had read about bees, it ought to be
out in the garden spinning honey. Then.I had an oscillation of the cerebellum
(some people would call it a "brain-wave"). Most likely Bertram
hadn't got any home, and it was no use him spinning any honey if he had nowhere
to put it when he had spun it. Or he might possibly have left a hive that was
scandalously overcrowded, and was looking about for other premises where he
wouldn't fit so tight, and where he would have more elbow-room.. But whatever
his reason, it was pretty obvious that Bertram was out of a job for the time
being, and so I at once decided to take him into my own employ, and let him
produce honey for me in return for house-room and free use of garden.
I therefore caught him in my
handkerchief, and transferred him to a cardboard box, which had originally
contained boots, then a jig-saw, and after that silk-worms. It had a lot of
small holes in the lid so that Bertram should not swoon from lack of air, and
one hole slightly larger than the others where he could put his head out and
look at the scenery when he felt bored. I hadn't the least idea what to give
him to eat. I read Maeterlinck's "The Treasure of the Humble Bee"
right through from cover to cover without a word about bee-diet. But I knew
that most animals got on pretty well with milk, and I seemed to remember something
about "milk and honey," so I put a saucerful in the box, and then
went to look for Wilkins, the gardener, to tell him what I had done.
He had just come back from his
dinner, and was getting ready to go to his tea. I pay him twenty-eight
shillings a week to go out and eat meals, and when he can spare the time he
walks around the garden and tells me what I ought to do to keep it in better
order. He's rather conservative in his notions, is Wilkins, and I didn't know
how he would take my idea about keeping Bertram. However, he was awfully decent
about it, and practically said he wouldn't put any difficulties in my way so
long as I didn't expect him to dig worms, or put down fresh straw for Bertram
every day. He wanted to know if Bertram had swarmed, as he wouldn't spin any
honey until he had. I asked why not? And Wilkins said it wasn't etiquette. No
self-respecting bee, he said, would ever dream of entering a hive, much less of
starting a cocoon, until the ceremonial part of the business had been gone
through.
Well, if you know anything at all
about bees, you will know as well as I do that you can't tell whether a bee has
swarmed by looking at its teeth., The only thing to do is to get a hive, place
the bee on the doorstep, and see if it goes in and starts the honey business.
That's why I went to town this morning and bought the apiary thing. When
Wilkins comes back from his dinner we are going to move Bertram from the
boot-box with much pomp.
* * *
The bee-hive is for sale at an enormous
sacrifice., Bertram, I regret to say, has escaped—I think through one of the ventilators.
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TO
BEE OR NOT TO BEE
By
Ashley Sterne
I have decided to start bees (the
honey sort, not the spelling). The fact is, I recently contributed an article
to one of the papers advocating that, as our sugar supply was threatened, it
would be as well to extract all the honey we could from every opening flower;
and realising that by some extraordinary fluke I have made a sane suggestion, I
intend to put my plan into action.
This will mean that I shall have to
keep bees to do the collecting, as the man who, relying solely on his own
exertions, sets out to gather honey armed with a teaspoon and the soap dish
won't have to write home about his success for quite a long time. My principal
difficulty is that I know practically nothing about bee-havior (if I may so
express myself), though I believe that with a book of instructions and a
blue-bag I shall eventually triumph. In common with many other people, I
dislike being stung. To me the risk of this is the great drawback of
bee-keeping, notwithstanding that familiarity with bees would doubtless enable
me to distinguish between the blunt end and the sharp. But the period of initiation
is, I fear, fraught with dire peril. With other animals that hurt the case is
different. You can muzzle a snapping dog. You can draw the poison-fangs of a
tortoise. But you can't muzzle a sting—the bee could still poke it between the
wires. You can't give the creature gas or cocaine and remove the sting, because
the bee would not survive the operation. The only other possible plan would be
to make little scabbards to cover the stings. But here again one is beset by a
difficulty, because one will first of all have to catch the bee, and probably
get stung in the process, before one can have a chance to fix the scabbard on
to prevent the bee's doing what it has already done.
I know that some bee-farmers protect
themselves with a mosquito-net; but men who have tried it tell me that it is
only a wicked delusion and snare. It doesn't prevent mosquitoes and things from
getting in; it merely I prevents their getting out, the result being that you
get stung more often, and upon a more restricted area than you would if you
wore no net at all.
Again, bee-experts will tell you
that when the bees once get to know you they won't sting you. But the question
at once arises: how are they ever going to get to know you? Take my own case.
The day my pack of bees arrives I shall take them down to the bee-run which I
have provided for them at the bottom of my garden, and turn them all into it.
They will naturally want to start the honey business at once, and will fly out
again. They will not know who I am; I shan't know their names; and I shall promptly
be stung. The next morning when I go to take them fresh seed and water they'll
see me again, and, not recognising me for the individual they met yesterday
(since I shall be swollen and distorted from their former attack), they'll
sting me again. And so the game will go on. Every day I shall be stung one size
larger, and every following day appear as a total stranger to my bees. A
possible alternative would be to wear a complete suit of armor and
boxing-gloves, and then I sha'n't care a bean for the sharpest and the hottest
bee. They would get to know me very quickly if I always appeared thus clad; and
I am perfectly certain that they would soon tire of blunting their stings upon
quarter-inch steel plate. The only thing against it is that armor would, I am
afraid, prove a trifle irksome as a summer costume, and I have no pressing
desire to experience the sensations of a sardine a 1' huile.
At the same time I have no immediate
wish to be stung all out of shape. The facial dimensions of the hippopotamus
are revolting to my aesthetic sense. After all, I think that the best plan will
be to get the gardener, who is very old and tough, and would never be mistaken
for Beau Brummell even in a coal-mine with the lights out, to do the dangerous
part of the work while I sit in the tool-shed with a soup-plate on my knees to
receive the honey. Mean while I intend to apply for member ship of the Bee,
Wasp, and Hornet Keepers' Association, a distinction which will enable me to
use as my crest the imposing design of a bee rampant on a field of clover,
subscribed with that inspiring motto, "Ora proboscis."
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