e such aromatic fragrance around. And now comes the delightful
sound of childish voices, ringing with glee and merriment almost from
beneath our feet. Ah, Lizzy, your mother was right! They are shouting
from that deep irregular pool, all glass now, where, on two long,
smooth, liny slides, half a dozen ragged urchins are slipping along in
tottering triumph. Half a dozen steps bring us to the bank right above
them. May can hardly resist the temptation of joining her friends, for
most of the varlets are of her acquaintance, especially the rogue who
leads the slide,--he with the brimless hat, whose bronzed complexion and
white flaxen hair, reversing the usual lights and shadows of the human
countenance, give so strange and foreign a look to his flat and comic
features. This hobgoblin, Jack Rapley by name, is May's great crony; and
she stands on the brink of the steep, irregular descent, her black eyes
fixed full upon him, as if she intended him the favour of jumping on his
head. She does: she is down, and upon him; but Jack Rapley is not easily
to be knocked off his feet. He saw her coming, and in the moment of
her leap sprung dexterously off the slide on the rough ice, steadying
himself by the shoulder of the next in the file, which unlucky follower,
thus unexpectedly checked in his career, fell plump backwards, knocking
down the rest of the line like a nest of card-houses. There is no harm
done; but there they lie, roaring, kicking, sprawling, in every attitude
of comic distress, whilst Jack Rapley and Mayflower, sole authors of
this calamity, stand apart from the throng, fondling, and coquetting,
and complimenting each other, and very visibly laughing, May in
her black eyes, Jack in his wide, close-shut mouth, and his whole
monkey-face, at their comrades' mischances. I think, Miss May, you may
as well come up again, and leave Master Rapley to fight your battles.
He'll get out of the scrape. He is a rustic wit--a sort of Robin
Goodfellow--the sauciest, idlest, cleverest, best-natured boy in the
parish; always foremost in mischief, and always ready to do a good turn.
The sages of our village predict sad things of Jack Rapley, so that I am
sometimes a little ashamed to confess, before wise people, that I have
a lurking predilection for him (in common with other naughty ones), and
that I like to hear him talk to May almost as well as she does. 'Come,
May!' and up she springs, as light as a bird. The road is gay now; carts
and