THE INCORRIGIBLES AGAIN.
"What-ho, Charlie! Bit showery, ain't it?"
THE DEFENCE OF AMBERRY PARVA.
Amberry Parva certainly existed before Shakspeare's time, but I doubt if Shakspeare ever saw it. For which he was so much the poorer, seeing that Amberry is a faithful microcosm of much of England.
Thomas Fallow, Aaron West and George Hangar are all friends of mine. Though still comparative youthful, they are the shining lights of the Amberry Rural Council, self-trained to face a crisis or an emergency with calm and steady bearing. When I came upon them last week they were seated about the bench outside the door of "The Three Cups." A fourth man—a small hairy stranger—was addressing them.
Thomas Fallow motioned me to halt.
"We're consultin'," he explained, "with Mr. Chittenden as keeps the baccy-shop in Wream."
Now Wream is a shade—the merest shade—more important (in its own esteem) than Amberry. It sits astride the same high road that the Romans carved seawards a thousand-odd years ago, and supplies us with newspapers, telegrams and gossip. While we score in the possession of two tin chapels to their one, we writhe inwardly over a Diamond Jubilee Fountain which we cannot hope to surpass.