16 September 1912 – 22 September 1912

Out in the Bay dredging for Echinoderms with "Carrots." Brilliantly fine. The haul was a failure, but, being out in a boat on a waveless sea under a cloudless sky, I was scarcely depressed at this! We cruised along from one little bay to another, past smugglers' caves and white pebble beaches, the dredge all the while growling along the sea bottom, and "Carrots" and I lying listless in the bows. I was immensely happy. My mercury was positively ringing the bell. Who, then, is "Carrots"? He is a fine brawny boat-man who jumps over the rocks like a Chamois, swims like a Fish, pulls like an Ox, snorts like a Grampus--a sort of compound zoological perfection, built eclectically.

Early Boughies Up the village, Mrs. Beavan keeps a tiny little shop and runs a very large garden. She showed us all about the garden, and introduced us to her husband, whom we discovered in an apple tree--an old man, aged 76, very hard of hearing, and with an impediment in his speech. He at once began to move his mouth, and I caught odd jingles of sound that sounded like nothing at all--at first, but which gradually resolved themselves on close attention to such familiar landmarks as "Early Boughies," "Stubbits," "Ribstone Pippins" into a discourse on Apples. The following curious conversation took place between me and the deaf gaffer, aged 76, standing in the apple tree,-- "These be all appulls from Kent--I got 'em all from Kent." "How long have you lived in C----?" "Bunyard & Son--that's the firm--they live just outside the town of Maidstone." "Do you keep Bees here?" "One of these yer appulls is called Bunyard after the firm--a fine fruit too." "Your good wife must be of great assistance to you in your work." "Little stalks maybe, but a large juishy appull for all that." Just then I heard Mrs. B---- saying to E----,-- "Aw yes, he's very active for 76. A little deaf, but he manages the garden all 'eesulf, I bolsters 'un up wi' meat and drink--little and often as they zay for children.... Now there's a bootifull tree, me dear, that 'as almost beared itself to death, as you may say." She picked an apple off it shouting to poor Tom still aloft,-- "Tom what's the name of this one?" "You should come a bit earlier, zir," replied T. "'Tis late a bit now doan't 'ee zee?" "No--what's its name I want," shouted his spouse. "Yes, yes, give the lady one to take home--there's plenty for all," he said. "What is the NAME? THE NAME OF THIS YER APPULL," screamed Mrs. B., and old Tom moving his bones slowly down from the tree answered quite unmoved,-- "Aw the name? Why, 'tis a common kind of appull--there's a nice tree of 'em up there." "Oh! never mind, 'tis a Gladstone," said Mrs. B., turning to us. "A very fine Appull," droned the old boy.