er proud
as well. It was a distinction to have a dragon of your own, and it was
felt to be a feather in the cap of the village. Still, all were agreed
that this sort of thing couldn't be allowed to go on.

The dreadful beast must be exterminated, the country-side must be freed
from this pest, this terror, this destroying scourge. The fact that not
even a hen roost was the worse for the dragon's arrival wasn't allowed
to have anything to do with it. He was a dragon, and he couldn't deny
it, and if he didn't choose to behave as such that was his own lookout.
But in spite of much valiant talk no hero was found willing to take
sword and spear and free the suffering village and win deathless fame;
and each night's heated discussion always ended in nothing. Meanwhile
the dragon, a happy Bohemian, lolled on the turf, enjoyed the sunsets,
told antediluvian anecdotes to the Boy, and polished his old verses
while meditating on fresh ones.

One day the Boy, on walking in to the village, found everything wearing
a festal appearance which was not to be accounted for in the calendar.
Carpets and gay-coloured stuffs were hung out of the windows, the
church-bells clamoured noisily, the little street was flower-strewn,
and the whole population jostled each other along either side of it,
chattering, shoving, and ordering each other to stand back. The Boy saw
a friend of his own age in the crowd and hailed him.

"What's up?" he cried. "Is it the players, or bears, or a circus, or
what?"

"It's all right," his friend hailed back. "He's a-coming."

"WHO'S a-coming?" demanded the Boy, thrusting into the throng.

"Why, St. George, of course," replied his friend. "He's heard tell of
our dragon, and he's comin' on purpose to slay the deadly beast, and
free us from his horrid yoke. O my! won't there be a jolly fight!"

Here was news indeed! The Boy felt that he ought to make quite sure for
himself, and he wriggled himself in between the legs of his good-natured
elders, abusing them all the time for their unmannerly habit of shoving.
Once in the front rank, he breathlessly awaited the arrival.

Presently from the far-away end of the line came the sound of cheering.
Next, the measured tramp of a great war-horse made his heart beat
quicker, and then he found himself cheering with the rest, as, amidst
welcoming shouts, shrill cries of women, uplifting of babies and waving
of handkerchiefs, St. George paced slowly up the street. The Boy's hea