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Title: After Dark in the Playing Fields
Author: James, Montague Rhodes (1862-1936)
Date of first publication: 28 June 1924
   [College Days 10 (Eton College)]
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   "The Collected Ghost Stories of M. R. James"
   (New York: Longmans, Green;
   London: Edward Arnold, 1931)
   [first edition]
Date first posted: 13 April 2013
Date last updated: 13 April 2013
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #1063

This ebook was produced by:
Delphine Lettau, Mary Meehan, Mark Akrigg
& the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
at http://www.pgdpcanada.net






                   AFTER DARK IN THE PLAYING FIELDS

                            By M. R. JAMES




The hour was late and the night was fair. I had halted not far from
Sheeps' Bridge and was thinking about the stillness, only broken by the
sound of the weir, when a loud tremulous hoot just above me made me
jump. It is always annoying to be startled, but I have a kindness for
owls. This one was evidently very near: I looked about for it. There it
was, sitting plumply on a branch about twelve feet up. I pointed my
stick at it and said, "Was that you?" "Drop it," said the owl. "I know
it ain't only a stick, but I don't like it. Yes, of course it was me:
who do you suppose it would be if it warn't?"

We will take as read the sentences about my surprise. I lowered the
stick. "Well," said the owl, "what about it? If you will come out here
of a Midsummer evening like what this is, what do you expect?" "I beg
your pardon," I said, "I should have remembered. May I say that I think
myself very lucky to have met you to-night? I hope you have time for a
little talk?" "Well," said the owl ungraciously, "I don't know as it
matters so particular to-night. I've had me supper as it happens, and if
you ain't too long over it--ah-h-h!" Suddenly it broke into a loud
scream, flapped its wings furiously, bent forward and clutched its
perch tightly, continuing to scream. Plainly something was pulling hard
at it from behind. The strain relaxed abruptly, the owl nearly fell
over, and then whipped round, ruffling up all over, and made a vicious
dab at something unseen by me. "Oh, I _am_ sorry," said a small clear
voice in a solicitous tone. "I made sure it was loose. I do hope I
didn't hurt you." "Didn't 'urt me?" said the owl bitterly. "Of course
you 'urt me, and well you know it, you young infidel. That feather was
no more loose than--oh, if I could git at you! Now I shouldn't wonder
but what you've throwed me all out of balance. Why can't you let a
person set quiet for two minutes at a time without you must come
creepin' up and--well, you've done it this time, anyway. I shall go
straight to 'eadquarters and"--(finding it was now addressing the empty
air)--"why, where have you got to now? Oh, it is too bad, that it is!"

"Dear me!" I said, "I'm afraid this isn't the first time you've been
annoyed in this way. May I ask exactly what happened?"

"Yes, you may ask," said the owl, still looking narrowly about as it
spoke, "but it 'ud take me till the latter end of next week to tell you.
Fancy coming and pulling out anyone's tail feather! 'Urt me something
crool, it did. And what for, I should like to know? Answer me that!
Where's the _reason_ of it?"

All that occurred to me was to murmur, "The clamorous owl that nightly
hoots and wonders at our quaint spirits." I hardly thought the point
would be taken, but the owl said sharply: "What's that? Yes, you needn't
to repeat it. I 'eard. And I'll tell you what's at the bottom of it, and
you mark my words." It bent towards me and whispered, with many nods of
its round head: "Pride! stand-offishness! that's what it is! _Come not
near our fairy queen_" (this in a tone of bitter contempt). "Oh, dear
no! we ain't good enough for the likes of them. Us that's been noted
time out of mind for the best singers in the Fields: now, ain't that
so?"

"Well," I said, doubtfully enough, "_I_ like to hear you very much: but,
you know, some people think a lot of the thrushes and nightingales and
so on; you must have heard of that, haven't you? And then, perhaps--of
course I don't know--perhaps your style of singing isn't exactly what
they think suitable to accompany their dancing, eh?"

"I should kindly 'ope not," said the owl, drawing itself up. "Our
family's never give in to dancing, nor never won't neither. Why, what
ever are you thinkin' of!" it went on with rising temper. "A pretty
thing it would be for me to set there hiccuppin' at them"--it stopped
and looked cautiously all round it and up and down and then continued in
a louder voice--"them little ladies and gentlemen. If it ain't sootable
for them, I'm very sure it ain't sootable for me. And" (temper rising
again) "if they expect me never to say a word just because they're
dancin' and carryin' on with their foolishness, they're very much
mistook, and so I tell 'em."

From what had passed before I was afraid this was an imprudent line to
take, and I was right. Hardly had the owl given its last emphatic nod
when four small slim forms dropped from a bough above, and in a
twinkling some sort of grass rope was thrown round the body of the
unhappy bird, and it was borne off through the air, loudly protesting,
in the direction of Fellows' Pond. Splashes and gurgles and shrieks of
unfeeling laughter were heard as I hurried up. Something darted away
over my head, and as I stood peering over the bank of the pond, which
was all in commotion, a very angry and dishevelled owl scrambled heavily
up the bank, and stopping near my feet shook itself and flapped and
hissed for several minutes without saying anything I should care to
repeat.

Glaring at me, it eventually said--and the grim suppressed rage in its
voice was such that I hastily drew back a step or two--"'Ear that? Said
they was very sorry, but they'd mistook me for a duck. Oh, if it ain't
enough to make anyone go reg'lar distracted in their mind and tear
everythink to flinders for miles round." So carried away was it by
passion, that it began the process at once by rooting up a large beakful
of grass, which alas! got into its throat; and the choking that resulted
made me really afraid that it would break a vessel. But the paroxysm was
mastered, and the owl sat up, winking and breathless but intact.

Some expression of sympathy seemed to be required; yet I was chary of
offering it, for in its present state of mind I felt that the bird might
interpret the best-meant phrase as a fresh insult. So we stood looking
at each other without speech for a very awkward minute, and then came a
diversion. First the thin voice of the pavilion clock, then the deeper
sound from the Castle quadrangle, then Lupton's Tower, drowning the
Curfew Tower by its nearness.

"What's that?" said the owl, suddenly and hoarsely. "Midnight, I should
think," said I, and had recourse to my watch. "Midnight?" cried the owl,
evidently much startled, "and me too wet to fly a yard! Here, you pick
me up and put me in the tree; don't, I'll climb up your leg, and you
won't ask me to do that twice. Quick now!" I obeyed. "Which tree do you
want?" "Why, my tree, to be sure! Over there!" It nodded towards the
Wall. "All right. Bad-calx tree do you mean?" I said, beginning to run
in that direction. "'Ow should I know what silly names you call it? The
one what 'as like a door in it. Go faster! They'll be coming in another
minute." "Who? What's the matter?" I asked as I ran, clutching the wet
creature, and much afraid of stumbling and coming over with it in the
long grass. "_You'll_ see fast enough," said this selfish bird. "You
just let me git on the tree, _I_ shall be all right."

And I suppose it was, for it scrabbled very quickly up the trunk with
its wings spread and disappeared in a hollow without a word of thanks. I
looked round, not very comfortably. The Curfew Tower was still playing
St. David's tune and the little chime that follows, for the third and
last time, but the other bells had finished what they had to say, and
now there was silence, and again the "restless changing weir" was the
only thing that broke--no, that emphasized it.

Why had the owl been so anxious to get into hiding? That of course was
what now exercised me. Whatever and whoever was coming, I was sure that
this was no time for me to cross the open field: I should do best to
dissemble my presence by staying on the darker side of the tree. And
that is what I did.

       *       *       *       *       *

All this took place some years ago, before summertime came in. I do
sometimes go into the Playing Fields at night still, but I come in
before true midnight. And I find I do not like a crowd after dark--for
example at the Fourth of June fireworks. You see--no, you do not, but I
see--such curious faces: and the people to whom they belong flit about
so oddly, often at your elbow when you least expect it, and looking
close into your face, as if they were searching for someone--who may be
thankful, I think, if they do not find him. "Where do they come from?"
Why, some, I think, out of the water, and some out of the ground. They
look like that. But I am sure it is best to take no notice of them, and
not to touch them.

Yes, I certainly prefer the daylight population of the Playing Fields to
that which comes there after dark.




[End of After Dark in the Playing Fields, by M. R. James]
