The Garden Party

Behind them, an old sheepdog, his soaking paws covered with sand, ran carelessly along with his nose to the ground as if thinking of something else. And then, in the rocky gateway, the shepherd himself appeared. He was a lean, upright old man in a frieze coat covered with a web of tiny drops, velvet trousers tied under the knee, and a wide-awake with a folded blue handkerchief around the brim. One hand was crammed into his belt. The other grasped a beautifully smooth yellow stick. And as he walked, taking his time, he kept up a very soft light whistling, an airy, far-away fluting that sounded mournful and tender. The old dog cut an ancient caper or two, drew up sharp, ashamed of his fun and walked at a few dignified paces by his master’s side.

The sheep ran forward in little pattering rushes; they began to bleat, and ghostly flocks and herds answered them from under the sea. “Baa! Baaa!” They always seemed to be on the same ground for a time. There ahead was stretched the sandy road with shallow puddles; the same soaking bushes showed on either side and the same shadowy palings. Then something immense came into view: an enormous shock-haired giant with his arms stretched out. It was the big gum tree outside Mrs. Stubbs’ shop, and as they passed, there was a strong whiff of eucalyptus. And now big spots of light gleamed in the mist. The shepherd stopped whistling; he rubbed his red nose and wet beard on his damp sleeve and, screwing up his eyes, glanced in the direction of the sea. The sun was rising. It was marvellous how quickly the mist thinned, sped away, dissolved from the shallow plain, rolled up from the bush, and was gone as if in a hurry to escape; big twists and curls jostled and shouldered each other as the silvery beams broadened. The far-away sky—a bright, pure blue—was reflected in the puddles, and the drops, swimming along the telegraph poles, flashed into points of light.

Now, the leaping, glittering sea was so bright it made one’s eyes ache to look at it. The shepherd drew a pipe, the bowl as small as an acorn, out of his breast pocket, fumbled for a chunk of speckled tobacco, pared off a few shavings, and stuffed the bowl. He was a grave, fine-looking old man. As he lit up and the blue smoke wreathed his head, the watching dog looked proud of him. “Baa! Baaa!” The sheep spread out into a fan. They were clear of the summer colony before the first sleeper turned over and lifted a drowsy head; their cry sounded in the dreams of little children…who lifted their arms to drag down, to cuddle the darling little woolly lambs of sleep. Then the first inhabitant appeared: the Burnells’ cat Florrie, sitting on the gatepost, far too early as usual, looking for their milk girl. When she saw the old sheepdog, she sprang up quickly, arched her back, drew in her tabby head, and gave a little fastidious shiver.