TO THE REV. ST. GEORGE K. HYLAND, D.D. “ Guide, philosopher, and friend ” September, 1915 A LITTLE HOUSE IN WAR TIME BY AGNES AND EGERTON CASTLE AUTHORS OF “THE STAR-DREAMER,” “INCOMPARABLE BELLAIRS,” “OUR SENTIMENTAL GARDEN,” ETC. Rudyard Kipling NEW YORK E. P. DUTTON AND COMPANY 681 Fifth Avenue 1916 Printed in Great Britain...

Rupert Brooke. A little chronicle of a great time may have an interest of its own quite incommensurate from its intrinsic worth. These pages do not pretend to any merit beyond faithfulness; but they are the true record of the everyday life of an average family during the first year of the war of wars; what we have felt, what we have seen; the great anxieties; the trivial incidents and emotions which have been shared by thousands of our fellow-countrymen. This home has been so far exceptional tha

W. Blake. The most usual remark that people make after a visit to our little house on the hill is this: “How peaceful!” Even in the ordinary course of life—those times that now seem extraordinary to a world already accustomed to the universal struggle—when everyone in England was in peace, except where their own unquiet spirits may have marred it, even then this nest of ours seemed peace within peace. We do not know now whether the contrast is not the more acute. One of the thousands of homes de

Cammaerts. It is frequently said in letters from the front, by the officer praising his men, or vice versa : “A dozen things are being done every day that deserve the Victoria Cross.” But if you speak to one of these heroes of their own deeds, you will invariably get the same answer: “I just did my little bit.” How immense a satisfaction it must be to feel you’ve done your little bit! And how out of it are the stay-at-homes! Yet we also have our part to play—infinitesimal in comparison, but stil

“Chi poco sa, presto lo dice!” Wisdom of Nations. Of course we are not behindhand in our village in the Red Cross movement. Nearly every woman, whatever her views, fancies herself nowadays in the rôle of ministering angel. It may be doubted whether an existence devoted to the Tango and its concomitants has been a useful preparation for a task which demands the extreme of self-devotion; and we have heard odd little tales of how a whole body of charming and distinguished amateurs rushed into the c

“For the first time the Lamb shall be dyed red....” Brother Johannes’ Prophecy. “ Consider the lilies, how they grow....” The sad thing is that with us they decline to grow. When we bought the small, high-perched house and grounds on the Surrey hills there is no doubt that the thought of lilies in those terraced gardens was no unimportant part of the programme. Oddly, the little house had from the first an Italian look, which we have not been slow to cultivate. Now we were haunted by a picture o

Robert Browning. March . —We bought the small place on the Surrey highlands and furnished it out of Rome; and set statues and cypresses and vases overflowing with flowers about the quaint terraces that run down to the valley; and we have a bit of Italy between pine-woods and wild moorland. We have called it the Villino. The idea started as a week-end cottage. Gradually, however, we came to pay the flying visits to the London house and spend the most of our time in the country. Since the war bega

“In how several ways do we speak to our dogs, and they answer us!”— Michel de Montaigne. The war-baby was very dear and downy when we first saw her. She is the daughter of a Chinaman (an important member of the household), and a neighbouring lady. The Chinaman was, in fact, so important that the usual matrimonial procedure was reversed in his case; and the family of the lady made unabashed and persevering advances for his favour before he could be induced to condescend to the alliance. Anyone fa

Rupert Brooke. June 1. —The garden in early June! Like a great many other things the idea is very different from the reality. The first of June in the garden represents to the mind’s eye bowers of roses, exuberance in the borders, a riot of colour and fragrance. As a matter of fact, with us, in our late-blooming, high-perched terraces, it means a transition stage, and is annually very exasperating and disappointing to the impatient spirit of the Signora. It is the time when the azaleas look dish

Cammaerts. We asked them to tea; the Sister said that “the Matron said they couldn’t do that”; but they could come for morning lunch about half-past ten o’clock, and have bread-and-butter and see the garden. And they would like to come very much indeed, preferably next day. The Matron further opined about twelve would feel well enough to avail themselves of our hospitality. It gave us very little time for preparation, and the baker declined to provide us with buns so early. But it was very hot,

Walt Whitman. Walt Whitman. The master of the Villino got the telegram when he was shaving, that morning of October 26. “Slightly wounded. Going London.—H.” He came straight in to the Signora, who instantly read all kinds of sinister meanings into the reticent lines. Slightly wounded! H. would be sure to say that whatever had happened. Even if he had lost an arm or a leg he might very well try and break it to us in some such phrase. There were certainly grounds for consolation in the fact that h