A Bishop was coming to see the Pack—a very, very agèd Bishop, very holy and very wise. The Cubs felt rather nervous. But, of course, it was a great honour. They scrubbed out their headquarters, and decorated it with evergreens. And they arranged a Council Rock for the Bishop to sit on—a big wooden armchair.
“When you have given the Bishop a Grand Howl,” said the Cubmaster, “he will sit on the Council Rock and speak a few words to you.”
“Will it be a sermon?” asked the Cubs, pulling long faces. They didn’t like sermons, you see.
“Yes,” said the Cubmaster.
When the Bishop arrived he had such merry, little twinkling eyes and such a kind smile that the Cubs were not a bit afraid of him. He talked in such a jolly way that they quite forgot how very respectful they ought to be; and they crowded round him and all told him things at the same time. And when it came to the Grand Howl, they shouted louder than they had ever shouted before, because they thought the greater and older and holier the Old Wolf on the Council Rock was, the louder they ought to shout!
Then the Bishop sat down.
“Now, I suppose, I’m expected to preach you a sermon?” he said. “But I know you all hate sermons.”
The boys looked abashed, and wondered how he had read their thoughts.
“Well,” said the Bishop, “it shall only be a very short sermon. But first I’ll tell you a story. I know you all love stories.”
“Oh, yes!” said the Cubs all together, their eyes sparkling.