“Good gracious!” said Anthea; “but you’re a lady!”
“Ah,” said the lady, “that quaint old word! Well, my husband will enjoy a talk with you. In the dark ages everyone was allowed to have a smoky chimney, and those nasty horses all over the streets, and all sorts of rubbish thrown into the Thames. And, of course, the sufferings of the people will hardly bear thinking of. It’s very learned of you to know it all. Did you make Ancient History your special subject?”
“Not exactly,” said Cyril, rather uneasily. “What is the Duties of Citizenship Course about?”
“Don’t you really know? Aren’t you pretending—just for fun? Really not? Well, that course teaches you how to be a good citizen, what you must do and what you mayn’t do, so as to do your full share of the work of making your town a beautiful and happy place for people to live in. There’s a quite simple little thing they teach the tiny children. How does it go...?
“I must not steal and I must learn,
Nothing is mine that I do not earn.
I must try in work and play
To make things beautiful every day.
I must be kind to everyone,
And never let cruel things be done.
I must be brave, and I must try
When I am hurt never to cry,
And always laugh as much as I can,
And be glad that I’m going to be a man
To work for my living and help the rest
And never do less than my very best.”
“That’s very easy,” said Jane. “I could remember that.”
“That’s only the very beginning, of course,” said the lady; “there are heaps more rhymes. There’s the one beginning—
“I must not litter the beautiful street
With bits of paper or things to eat;
I must not pick the public flowers,
They are not mine, but they are ours.”
“And ‘things to eat’ reminds me—are you hungry? Wells, run and get a tray of nice things.”
“Why do you call him ‘Wells’?” asked Robert, as the boy ran off.