tly have been effective to welcome the hero, to glorify
his deed, and to point the moral in a few original verses; but,
unhappily, the muse was froward, which was singular, since the _elite_
of Little Primpton had unimpeachable morals, ideals of the most approved
character, and principles enough to build a church with; nor was an
acquaintance with literature wanting. They all read the daily papers,
and Mr. and Mrs. Jackson, in addition, read the _Church Times_. Mary
even knew by heart whole chunks of Sir Lewis Morris, and Mr. Dryland
recited Tennyson at penny readings. But when inspiration is wanting, a
rhyming dictionary, for which the curate sent to London, will not help
to any great extent; and finally the unanimous decision was reached to
give some well-known poem apposite to the circumstance. It shows in what
charming unity of spirit these simple, God-fearing people lived, and how
fine was their sense of literary excellence, that without hesitation
they voted in chorus for "Casabianca."

The head boy stepped forward--he had been carefully trained by Mr.
Dryland--and with appropriate gestures recited the immortal verses of
Felicia Hemans:

"_The boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but 'e 'ad fled;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck,
Shone round 'im o'er the dead._"

When he finished, amid the discreet applause of the little party beneath
the archway, Mr. Dryland again advanced.

"Polly Game, the top girl of the Parish School, will now present Miss
Clibborn with a bouquet. Step forward, Polly Game."

This was a surprise arranged by the curate, and he watched with pleasure
Mary's look of delighted astonishment.

Polly Game stepped forward, and made a little speech in the ingenuous
words which Mr. Dryland had thought natural to her character and
station.

"Please, Miss Clibborn, we, the girls of Little Primpton, wish to
present you with this bouquet as a slight token of our esteem. We wish
you a long life and a 'appy marriage with the choice of your 'eart."

She then handed a very stiff bunch of flowers, surrounded with frilled
paper like the knuckle of a leg of mutton.

"We will now sing hymn number one hundred and thirty-seven," said Mr.
Dryland.

The verses were given vigorously, while Mrs. Clibborn, with a tender
smile, murmured to Mrs. Parsons that it was beautiful to see such a nice
spirit among the lower classes. The strains of the brass band died away
on the summer b