mean that I have hit upon a plan
for doing honour to the birth of our son and heir, of the propagator of
the glory of our house, and of the renowned name of Mumbles.'

'Have you, by gowls?' said Mr. Mumbles. 'What is it?'

'A tournament,' said she, 'a tournament, that glory of the chivalric
ages; will it not be gloriously delightful to see once more "the light
of other days" upon us? To see those battlements decked with the banners
of the house of Mumbles, to hear the clarion ring, to listen to the
strains of martial music, to see the lounge and thrust and anvil blow,
knights unhorsed, armour riven, helms cloven.'

'It would be a good go,' said Mr. Mumbles.

'A good go; it would be a go and three-quarters--at least, according to
your own phraseology. I think myself truly happy at having been blessed
with such a revelation, and pray that I may be strengthened to perform
my part of the ceremony.'

'And what may that be?' said Mr. Mumbles.

'Why of course I must be the queen of beauty, and you must be my king
consort. The knights, having arranged themselves, must, first of all,
pay their respects to me, and then the victor must kneel before me, and
receive from my hands the richly-embroidered scarf and the crowning
garland.'

'Well, it will be a grand day--an epoch in my existence--a sort of hera.
I think they call it a _hera_. And if we could get the band of the
Scrambles Volunteer Company it would be excellent; if not, I think I
know some music that would suit.'

'What is that?' inquired Mrs. Mumbles.

'The marrow-bones and cleavers; they are very pretty music, and I should
like _them_, band or no band.'

'The marrow-bones and cleavers,' said Mrs. Mumbles in astonishment.

'Yes,' said Mr. Mumbles, 'it was my glory when I was a boy, and we used
to have them all rung at christenings and weddings. I have heard say
that at my christening and at my mother's marriage they rang a treble
bob-major.'

'And pray, what is a bob-major?' inquired Mrs. Mumbles. 'I have heard of
a serjeant-major and a drum-major, but never heard of a bob-major.'

'A bob-major,' rejoined the elated butcher, 'is a long tune, that
puzzles you to know when you will get to the end of it, and so you stand
and wait and wait, till at last, all of a sudden, it stops.'

'And how does it go, my dear? Is it a pretty tune?'

'I should think it _was_ a pretty tune--like the church bells, only more
cutting, as it might be expected, from its coming f