Transcriber's Notes:
Blank pages have been eliminated.
Variations in spelling and hyphenation have been left as in theoriginal.
A few typographical errors have been corrected.
The cover page was created by the transcriber and can be considered public domain.
CLORINDA WALKS IN HEAVEN
TALES BY A. E. COPPARD
THE GOLDEN COCKEREL PRESS
WALTHAM SAINT LAWRENCE
BERKSHIRE ... MCMXXII
I record my acknowledgments to the Editors ofthe following journals in which some of thesetales first appeared: The Cornhill, LondonMercury, Westminster Gazette, ManchesterGuardian, English Review; and TheDial, of America.
A.E.C.
CONTENTS
| PAGE | |
| THE HURLY-BURLY | 9 |
| CLORINDA WALKS IN HEAVEN | 21 |
| THE CHERRY TREE | 29 |
| THE ELIXIR OF YOUTH | 37 |
| FELIX TINCLER | 49 |
| CRAVEN ARMS | 61 |
| A BROADSHEET BALLAD | 93 |
| COTTON | 103 |
| POMONA'S BABE | 115 |
TO MRS. FLYNN
THE HURLY-BURLY
The Weetmans—mother, son, anddaughter—lived on a thriving farm. It was small enough,God knows; but it had always been a turbulent place of abode. Forthe servant it was "Phemy, do this," or "Phemy, have you donethat?" from dawn to dark, and even from dark to dawn therewas a hovering of unrest. The widow Weetman, a partial invalid,was the only figure that manifested any semblance of tranquility;and it was a misleading one, for she sat day after day on herlarge hams, knitting and nodding, and lifting her grey face onlyto grumble, her spectacled eyes transfixing the culprit with abasilisk glare. And her daughter Alice, the housekeeper, whohad a large face, a dominating face, in some respects she was allface, was like a blast in a corridor with her "Maize for the hens,Phemy!—More firewood, Phemy!—Who has set the trap in theharness room?—Come along!—Have you scoured the skimmingpans?—Why not?—Where are you idling?—Come along,Phemy, I have no time to waste this morning; you really musthelp me!" It was not only in the house that this cataract of industryflowed; outside there was activity enough for a regiment.A master-farmer's work consists largely of a series of conversationswith other master-farmers, a long-winded way of doinglong-headed things; but Glastonbury Weetman, the son, was