“Don’t go, Druid,” protested Harry, “don’t be put down; the Rector will put you up. The inspector doesn’t yet understand which is ‘uchaf,’ and which is ‘isaf,’ and how can you expect him to make it clear to those fellows in London? Stop, and I will lend you a tooth-brush.”
The Druid saw the lead and followed suit. “Thank you, Harry,” he said, “but I will not deprive you and the Rector of it.”
And so they vanished into the night.
FOOTNOTES:
[7] Old chestnut.
[8] Old den of thieves.
CHAPTER VI
THE VILLAGE SCHOOL
“You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear;
To-morrow’ll be the happiest day of all the glad New Year.”
Conceive, oh ye inhabiters of towns, a condition of existence so devoid of incident that the annual inspection of the village school is the event of the year. “Never comes the trader”; never comes Wombwell or Sanger; the Bishop holds no Confirmation here, and the Eisteddfod keeps afar off. To this people October is the first of months, because of the “Xaminashun.” September is the long Vigil, during which, in spite of late harvest, truants are hunted up, cajoled, threatened, bribed to complete their tale of 250 attendances. Rising early, and so late taking rest, the teachers struggle with their little flock. The third week comes, and the post is watched with keenest anxiety. Has the day been fixed? Surely he won’t come on the First! Surely he won’t keep us in suspense till the last week! Suppose it rains! Suppose they get the measles! “Suppose there is an earthquake,” says the Rector cheerfully.
The children do not look so far ahead, but when the actual day is fixed they catch the infection, and weary their mothers with speculations of probable success, possible failure. The eve of the awful day brings a half-holiday, on which the school floor has its annual wash: but the children hang about the playground and the school gate; for even blackberrying has lost its charm to-day. Do they lie awake at night? I doubt it, but I have no knowledge. Certainly they rise early, and clamour for early breakfast. Do they, like Falkland at Newbury, “put on a clean shirt to be killed in”? There, again, I have no information; but I know that it is a day of best frocks, of ribbons, above all of BOOTS.