by Ellen Wood
“The stem! the stem! ha, ha, ha! ho, ho, ho!” shook the boys, holding their sides. “He calls the trunk the stem!”
“The trunk, then,” said Fisher. “A thick, round, high trunk like that, where there’s nothing to lodge your feet upon! Go up yourselves, if you want somebody to go up. I’d as soon attempt to mount a greasy pole at a fair.”
“You’ll have to try it,” shouted the boys. “Let’s hear the first guess. I’ll bet the contents of my pockets against Dick Jenniker’s, that Fisher does not name them.”
“Wouldn’t you like it, Harris!” returned Mr Dick Jenniker. “I have got a valuable bank note or two in mine.”
Another laugh, at Jenniker’s boast of bank notes. Of all the school, his pockets were generally the most empty; he was one who spent his money faster than it came in.
“Come, Fisher, we are waiting for you.”
“Oh, well, I don’t mind guessing,” said Fisher, who was, on the whole, of an accommodating, peaceably inclined nature.
“Let’s see. They are not poplars — —”
A shout of derision drowned the conclusion of Fisher’s sentence. “Go ahead! That’s the first guess.”
“That was not a guess at all,” disputed Fisher. ‘I knew they were not poplars.”
“That’s a fine shuffle!” cried a dozen disputing voices, eager to take any advantage, as boy’s voices proverbially are. “You want to do us out of four guesses.”
“He knows poplars. Jenniker said so,” observed William Allair.
“Yes, yes, let that go,” said Harry Vane. “He said he knew poplars, before this was brought up.”
“Poplars are tall, straight, upright trees,” said simple Tom Fisher. “You can’t suppose I mistook these for poplars.”
“As tall and as straight as those charming wooden trees that come out of Arcadia. He has been to Arcadia,” added Jenniker in an aside explanation to the newcomers, “and knows the trees there. The shepherdesses stand underneath them all day with flowered crooks in their hands. You needn’t stare, Mr Fisher. Go on and take your first guess.”
“An elm,” returned Fisher at a venture, thinking it might be as well not to say anything about Arcadia and the shepherdesses.
“That’s one guess. Off again.”
“A fir,” hesitated Fisher, scanning the tree.
“That’s rich, that is! Go at it.”
“Well, you give me no time to remember names.”
“Plenty of time. Off for the third.”
“Is it a mountain-ash, then?” concluded Fisher, who never having, to his knowledge, seen a mountain-ash, thought that might be a reason for this being one.
“All over, all over! He has had his three guesses. Why, you stupid, could you look up at these trees, and not know what they are? Don’t you see the balls on them? Have you never heard of oak-balls?”
“Haven’t I! We call them oak-apples in London. Is it an oak-tree?”
“To be sure it is.”
“Well, I was stupid! I thought of oak once, and meant to guess it, but you put me out with that bother about the poplars. I said you did not give me time.”
“Any donkey would have known it was an oak-tree by the balls, Master Fisher,” politely observed Jenniker.
“I saw no balls,” grumbled Fisher, who did not relish Jenniker’s allusions.
“Don’t you see them now?”
“Yes, now you tell me they are there. But one has to look closely to do it, mixed up, as they are, amongst the leaves.”
“Now for the penalty,” said Jenniker, who was rubbing his hands as if expecting some choice gratification. ‘ “Let us see how a London gentleman can climb.”
“I can’t climb, I tell you,” dissented Fisher. “I won’t climb. There!”
“A bargain’s a bargain, sir, as we reckon in the country,” persisted Jenniker. “A favoured mortal who has been admitted to the sunny plains of Arcady, ought not to be shy of trees. I saw a picture of it once. The ground was moss, and the skies were blue streaked with pink. Come, Mr Fisher.”
“A bargain is no bargain when it’s made on one side only. That’s London fashion. If you think I am going to tear my clothes to rags with your trees, you are mistaken. I mightn’t care so much if my tailor were at hand to replenish them.”
“You are keeping your friends waiting, Mr Fisher,” returned Jenniker with polite suavity. “That’s not good manners. Up with you, and fling down a cartload of sprays. Choose those that have balls. We want to gild them.”
“What do you say you want to do?” inquired Fisher, not understanding.
“Gild them. Did you leave your hearing in Arcadia? It is the custom here to carry gilded oak-balls on the twenty-ninth of May.”
“How do you gild them?”
“With sheets of gold leaf. Don’t you see our paper books here, with the gilt leaves between? The girls gild: perhaps you’ll help them. Come, Fisher, no shuffling! Up the stem, as you call it.”
“Now, look you here,” returned Fisher, taking out a penknife to trim his finger nails. “You won’t get me up that tree, if you badger for the whole day; any more than you’ll get me up that church steeple yonder. And you may just as well drop the subject as waste your time over it.”
There might have been a forced ascent and some disturbance, but the girls — as they had just been unceremoniously styled — interfered, saying they would go home if any quarrelling took place. So Fisher was left to repose on mother earth in peace and safety; and the others mounted the trees.
When as many sprays were torn off as were wanted, and the young ladies, many of whom were assembled now, had finished the gilding, they all roved about, enjoying themselves. Conversing, laughing, giving chaff to Tom Fisher and to each other; and plucking the May and the hedge flowers. Some chased each other over the meadows, snatching handfuls of buttercups and daisies, only to scatter them; plucking, in gleeful merriment, the cowslips and bluebells; seeking for late primroses, for remaining violets. Their happy laughter mingled with the sunshine, with the sweet fragrance of the blossoms; whilst the ringing of the distant bells fell on the ear with the softest melody.
Presently some of them heard the cuckoo, and the rest stood still, their voices hushed. But the bird ceased its notes, and flew away to a distance.
Then the shouting and laughter were renewed, and the running through the long grass on its many coloured flowers, which was not exactly beneficial to the future crop of hay; and it was well, I think, that Squire Jones, to whom the field belonged, had not come oakballing, himself, and caught them there. Little cared they for the hay, that was to be: the present grass and its flowers were enough for them; the cowslips had never been so yellow, the May so pink, the clover so sweet, the bluebells so blue. All things were lovely. The weather had been gloomy so long that this warm sunny morning seemed like a very glimpse of Eden; it might have spoken to them of God.
But these hours of enjoyment passed quickly, and the village chimes told eight all too soon. It was the signal for returning home to breakfast; and away they trooped gradually, bearing their gilded oak-sprays. Other days they had to be in school by seven o’clock, but there was holiday on this one. It came but once a year, that morning ramble, and the gravest schoolboy among them — to be a freshman probably next year — was content for the time to be a child again.
As they passed Mr Vane’s house, a gentlemanly young man stood on its threshold, watching the return. It was Frederick Vane, the handsomest of that handsome family. Had he but been as good as he was handsome! Harry, only that morning, had called idleness his brother’s besetting sin. As yet, it was perhaps his worst and only sin: but it is one that leads to others. A favourite copy is that, given us with our earliest writing lessons: “Idleness is the root of all evil.”
“Why did you not come with us, Mr Frederick?” asked one of the passers-by.
He leaned against the stone pillar of the portico as he answered; leaned in his favourite listless fashion, and a smile sweet
and sunny, but still a listless smile, parted his lips. Frederick Vane was beginning to conjugate that noted French verb, the most dangerous that can make itself at home with a young and attractive man; was repeating over the first person of its first tense to himself hourly: “Je m’ennui.”
“Why did I not go with you?” he repeated. “I leave the glories of the twenty-ninth of May, getting up by star-light and oak-balling included, to those who are still in love with them. I have had my day at it.”
“It is not so bad a day yet.”
“True — for you. Each age has its favourite kaleidescope. Well, Mr William Allair, is that a whole tree or only some branches of it? You will make your shoulders ache.”
“I’d rather it was a ship’s mast,” returned William gaily, but quite without reference to the point, so far as Frederick Vane or anybody else could see. “Old Symes the shoemaker was regretting last night that he could not go out to get a bough for his door, his leg being worse, so I said I’d bring him one.”
“Very polite of you, I’m sure,” returned Frederick, in his thoroughly pleasant, but half mocking manner.
“I hope none of you gentlemen” — throwing his eyes on the group of boys who had stopped—” will find yourselves too late for breakfast. It is close upon nine.”
The remark caused a diversion. The being “too late” for breakfast is not an agreeable prospect to schoolboys with hungry appetites, and most of them set off at a canter for their respective homes, or for that of their head master, Dr Robertson.
William Allair and his sisters did not, at any rate, find themselves too late for theirs. Mr and Mrs Allair had waited for them. They had an indulgent home: one of those not too common, where careful training, anxious practical lessons, are blended with kindness. Their young brother Edmund, their poor afflicted brother Edmund, came forward eagerly as they entered the house, and he broke into a meaningless shout of delight as they loaded him with sprays of gilded oak-balls, and flew on to their plentiful breakfast. It is to be hoped the rest of the boys found as good a one and as hearty a welcome.
The meal over, and early attire changed for best, they waited with feverish impatience for the great event of the day — the procession, popularly called the “show;” a show which had annually enraptured the younger eyes of Whittermead for not far short of two centuries.
At half-past ten the church bells rang out for service; not with their Sunday ding-dong — as Dr Robertson’s boys irreverently expressed it — but with the same joyous chimes as in the early morning. Whittermead, in its loyalty, made a point of attending divine service on the twenty-ninth of May. And this show, passing down the street amidst the throng of admiring gazers, was on its way to attend service as they were.
It was heralded by two great branches of oak, borne abreast, as large as trees. Large streaming flags and silken banners followed, preceding a band of music, which to the ears of those assembled rivalled anything that could be achieved by the band of her Majesty’s Life Guards. Then came a stream, two and two, of decorated men, their coats gay with ribbons, and their hands with a spray of gilded oak. Next appeared a high spreading canopy of evergreens, garnished with blossoms and stars, wondrous to behold, underneath which walked two men, each bearing on his shoulder a lovely child, fancifully and gaily dressed, half covered with flowers and ribbons, some with gold and silver spangles, anything that was beautiful to the eye. They were called pages. And this was repeated over and over again — banners, flags, decorated men, green canopies, and the charming little children; all save the music and the heralding oak boughs. Now followed the grand object of interest, especially to the boys — the Iron Man. He wore a complete suit of iron armour, hence his appellation, and was mounted on a ponderous horse. His left hand held the bridle of his charger, and his right hand grasped a long, sharp spear, which was brandished terrifically, and thrust close to the face of all who ventured within its reach.
“What’s that for?” cried Fisher, who had looked on with amazed eyes. “Who is he meant to represent?”
“Oliver Cromwell,” said Jenniker.
“No,” interposed Gripper, one of Dr Robertson’s boys, — in fact, they had most of them collected in a group. “Not Oliver Cromwell. It’s meant for Charles himself, I think.”
“Then, were I you, I wouldn’t ‘ think’ till I could think better,” retorted Jenniker to Gripper. “Who ever heard of a king riding in iron armour from top to toe, face and all? — unless he were going to battle. Charles was never called the Iron Man.”
“It’s meant for Cromwell, just as much as it’s meant for Jenniker,” observed Gripper to Fisher.
“Jenniker’s right,” said Harry Vane. “It is meant for Cromwell.”
“It is not.”
“Very well,” said Harry Vane, with a laugh. “Have it your own way, Gripper, and then perhaps you’ll live the longer.”
“But don’t let Master Fisher carry a cock-and-bull story back to Temple Bar with him, informing the natives there that Charles II. rides annually in armour at Whittermead,” persisted Jenniker. “He’ll be going to Arcadia and spreading it there, if we don’t mind.”
“Going where?” cried Fisher, who did not catch the word.
“To Arcadia,” repeated Jenniker. “So once for all, Mr Fisher, understand: that Iron Man is old Oliver, if you have ever heard of him.”
“What had Oliver Cromwell to do with it?” asked Fisher.
“Why, don’t you know that this is the anniversary of King Charles’s restoration?” said Jenniker.
“Is it?”
“Well, you are a green goose, Fisher! Any young lady, but you, would have known that. That’s why we go to church.”
“What has our going to church to do with King Charles? He has been dead long enough, hasn’t he?”
“Oh, we go to pray for the continuation of Royalty, and all that. At least, that’s the popular understanding.”
“And what are those children for?” again demanded Mr Tom Fisher. “They are not ugly.”
“Those are the pages,” said Gruff Jones.
“Pages?” debated Fisher. “I thought they were meant for angels, or Cupids. They look much more like that sort of thing.”
“Our nurse used to tell us they were meant for baby angels,” timidly observed a young gentleman of eight, who had just been entered at Dr Robertson’s.
“Your nurse is an old woman,” responded Harry Vane.
“An out-and-out one,” added Jenniker. “If they represented angels, they’d dress them with wings, wouldn’t they, little muff?”
“Besides,” quoth Gripper, “what had angels to do with King Charles’s procession?”
“Or with Charles, either?” struck in Monitor Seymour. “If we may believe all that’s told, an angel’s opposite had more to do with him.”
“And Cupid most of all,” rejoined Jenniker, with one of his broad grins.
There was a laugh in Jenniker’s immediate neighbourhood, and the remark was passed on through the line of senior boys.
“I consider those pages the best worth seeing in all the show,” said Fisher.
“Do you hear that?” cried Jenniker to the throng of boys. “Master Fisher considers the pages the best worth seeing! Is he a lady, or is he a junior?” Both of which “species” — as Mr Jenniker gallantly expressed it — being known to favour the pages. The schoolboys curled their lips at them, and talked largely of the Iron Man.
Arrived at the church, the procession entered it. The Iron Man, after being assisted from his charger and divested of his spear and helmet, clanking himself up the aisle to his appropriated seat. The boys pressed forward, and got as close to him as they could.
The church was very full; as full as on Sundays: and the service for the restoration of the Royal Family was performed. At its conclusion, a large portion of the congregation hastened, somewhat indecorously, from the church, that they might secure good places to see the show pass back again. It did so in the same order that it had
come. The Iron Man, resuming his helmet, contrived, with a great deal of difficulty and some assistance, to remount his steed: but the weighty armour had fatigued him, and the spear was not brandished quite so fiercely as in coming. The pretty dresses of the pages were tumbled, and their little faces flushed from their having gone to sleep; but all things looked as well as before to the general eye: and the ringing bells again chimed out merrily in the noonday sunlight.
Ah! what show in after life could ever equal that rustic show of childhood? Look full at it! boys, girls, children, look at it! gaze your fill; feast your eyes upon it ere it shall have passed; another sight and yet another, before it shall quite fade away in the distance. Remember it well. It will recur to your memory in after years as a vision of all that was beautiful. When you are men and women, it may chance that you will see sights ten times as fine. The Lord Mayor’s show, with its tinsel and glitter of coaches, and soldiers, and scarlet robes, and ponderous gold chains; a royal coronation, with its imposing gorgeousness; or a fête-dieu in France — and in that fête there will be canopies and banners, and lovely children, fancifully habited as are these pages — and incense-scattering priests in their golden-worked robes, singing their deep, harmonious chant; but although their splendour may dazzle the eye, and a momentary gratification be excited in the mind, where will be the delight with which you gaze upon this simple show, now, in your childhood? Gone. For the fresh feelings that caused you to find rapture in external things will have left you with your youth. So, gaze your fill, I say, at the show, and be happy while you may. Now is the reality of existence; the conscious, glowing sense of enjoyment in all things: hereafter little of it will remain to you but its name and its remembrance.
More pleasure yet: for in Whittermead it was a day consecrated to it. Dinner-parties and tea-parties, and cakes, and sweetmeats, and happy faces; and boys upon their best behaviour, and young ladies radiant in blue ribbons and white muslin, with green and gilded oak-leaves sparkling in their shining hair.
But it came to an end. All things bright must come to an end, as well as all things sad. And the joyous revellers went home to bed in a trance of happiness, to dream it all over again, and to wish that every day in the year was the twenty-ninth of May.