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52
THE FLOWING BOWL
merciful, and withal a thrifty, poultry-farmer, I
looked out an old parrot's cage from the tool-shed,
and in this cage installed the weakly cockerel.
He was forthwith christened " Poor Richard,"
and given little Benjamin's share of the corn and
wine, and cayenne pepper and—other things.
And although his head was still slewed round to
starboard, he thrived under his liberal nourishment
and freedom from the assaults of his relatives.
Time flew on. I had been the " Northern
Circuit," in the pursuit of my then profession of
reporter of the sport of kings. I returned home
late on a Saturday night, and next day we had
friends to dinner.
So much North Country
language, and so much travelling about had quite
put our feathered and afflicted pensioner out of
my head ; and even the fact of our having the
favourite broth of His Majesty King James the
First for dinner did not suggest anything to my
busy brain.
But afterwards, when we were
alone—she ought not to have done it—my life-
partner confided to me that I had helped to eat
" Poor Richard " ! And I felt like a very
cannibal; and mourned the bird as a brother.
But to return. In Queen Elizabeth's reign
it was, I used to believe, a capital offence to put
hops into beer. But these are the directions for
Brewing of Strong Ale^
issued by one Gervase Markham, anauthority on
the subject, and a contemporary of Shakespeare ;
and in these directions "hops" are distinctly
mentioned as one of the component parts of the
brew.