My aunt is cutting up bacon rind for our birds. She is doing this with rather a shaky hand, in half an hour the taxi will be here and I must say good-bye. The shadow of farewells is upon the bacon rind and to-day the birds will not have such a finely chopped feast as yesterday. We take the rind and the breakfast crumbs and the crusts broken into pieces and put them on the lawn; now we stand back behind the window curtains and watch for cats. My aunt will have no cat in our garden. Also my aunt will see fair play between the birds, who sitting now and swinging gently upon the tree branches are about to have this lovely meal-o of bacon rind and crusty bread. It is a sunny day and early in the morning, the grass is heavy with dew and the sun low upon our neighbours' roofs.
Yesterday the gardener was here, and now the garden, newly prinked and tidied, the paths as neat and formal as a parade, shines beneath this early morning sun that has broken through to break the rain and storm clouds of past months. How very spry the garden looks, like a good child that has a washed face and a clean pinafore.
My aunt taps sharply on the window from behind the curtain. The thrush is cheating. Thrusting the smaller sparrows aside with greedy beak he gobbles up the lovely rind. Now, now, says my aunt. Now, now. That will do.
Stevie Smith, Over the Frontier, pages 115-6 (Virago edition).