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I fear 'tis so with the novelist's prosperities. Nature has a magic by which she fits the man to his fortunes, by making them the fruit of his character. But the novelist plucks this event here, and that fortune there, and ties them rashly to his figures, to tickle the fancy of his readers with a cloying success, or scare them with shocks of tragedy. And so, on the whole, 'tis a juggle.
So, to save the expense of labour, he built it himself, and worked hard, day after day, under Molly's orders, till winter came. Then it was finished. "Now for the feather-bed," said Molly. "I'll sew up the ticking, and when the old woman plucks her geese, I'll let you know."
There he remains till the apples are gathered, when he is taken down and thrown into the water, or he is burned and his ashes cast into water. But the person who plucks the first fruit from the tree succeeds to the title of "the great mondard."
Matt understands her instruction most literally: stealing into the sheepfold, he plucks out the eyes of all the sheep and goats, and puts them in his pocket. When he is seated beside his sweetheart, he casts a "sheep's eye" at her, which hits her on the nose. One morning she said, "We must get up early, for we have to make bread." So they both rose early, and began to make bread.
There is one among the fowls who has so far forgotten what is becoming to a hen that she plucks out all her feathers and lets the cock see it." "Prenez garde aux enfants!" said father owl; "children should not hear such things." "But I must tell our neighbour owl about it; she is such an estimable owl to talk to." And with that she flew away. "Too-whoo!
She in the meantime has relented of her coldness, and is pining for his love. An opportunity soon offers itself for his purpose. By mistake or through ignorance she plucks the Hesperian apples in the sacred grove, an offence for which she is condemned to be offered as a sacrifice to a monster who inhabits a cave on the shore, and is known by the name of Maleorchus.
When his wife tells him he needs repose, there is something really childish in the way he looks about the room, and, seeing nothing, with an expression of almost sensual relief, plucks up heart enough to go to bed. And what is the upshot of the visitation?
He describes Wordsworth's house, the grounds about it, and the cemetery where he lies, with the accuracy of a scientific report. He finds the grass growing too high about the head-stone of Wordsworth's grave, and plucks it away with his own hands, reflecting that it may have drawn its nourishment from his mortal remains.
When an elephant plucks off a branch and swishes his flanks, and thus keeps away insects, he is using a tool. But he does it only by a vague and haphazard association of ideas. If he once became a conscious user of tools he would of course go much further. We ourselves, who are so good at it now, were slow enough in beginning. Think of the long epochs that passed before it entered our heads.
There are they who yet remember 'mid the fever of exchange, When the hot excitement throttles and the millions make or break, How a camel's silent footfall on the ashen desert range Swings cushioned into distances where thoughts unfettered wake, And the memory unbidden plucks an unconverted heart Till the glamour goes from houses and emotion from the street, And the truth glares good and gainly in the face of 'change and mart: "There are deserts more intensive.
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