fro
(_Two merry eyes, two cheeks chub_)
Nor not a citril within, without,
But heard the racket and heard the rout
And marvelled what it was all about
(_And who shall shrive Beelzebub?_)

He whacked so hard the drum was split
(_Pom-pom, rub-a-dub-dum_)
Out lept Saint Gabriel from it
(_Praeclarissimus Omnium_)
Who spread his wings and up he went
Nor ever paused in his ascent
Till he had reached the firmament
(_Benedicamus Dominum_).

That's what I shall sing (please God) at dawn to-morrow, standing on
the high, green barrow at Storrington, where the bones of Athelstan's
men are. Yea,

At dawn to-morrow
On Storrington Barrow
I'll beg or borrow
A bow and arrow
And shoot sleek sorrow
Through the marrow.
The floods are out and the ford is narrow,
The stars hang dead and my limbs are lead,
But ale is gold
And there's good foot-hold
On the Cuckfield side of Storrington Barrow.

This too I shall sing, and other songs that are yet to write. In
Pagham I shall sing them again, and again in Little Dewstead. In
Hornside I shall rewrite them, and at the Scythe and Turtle in Liphook
(if I have patience) annotate them. At Selsey they will be very
damnably in the way, and I don't at all know what I shall do with them
at Selsey.

Such then, as I see it, is the whole pith, mystery, outer form, common
acceptation, purpose, usage usual, meaning and inner meaning, beauty
intrinsic and extrinsic, and right character of Christmas Feast.
_Habent urbs atque orbis revelationem._ Pray for my soul.

A STRAIGHT TALK

_By_

G**RGE B*RN*RD SH*W

(_Preface to "Snt George. A Christmas Play"_)

When a public man lays his hand on his heart and declares that his
conduct needs no apology, the audience hastens to put up its umbrellas
against the particularly severe downpour of apologies in store for
it. I wont give the customary warning. My conduct shrieks aloud for
apology, and you are in for a thorough drenching.

Flatly, I stole this play. The one valid excuse for the theft would
be mental starvation. That excuse I shant plead. I could have made
a dozen better plays than this out of my own head. You don't suppose
Shakespeare was so vacant in the upper storey that there was nothing
for it but to rummage through cinquecento romances, Townley Mysteries,
and suchlike insanitary rubbishheaps, in order that he might fish out
enough scraps for his a