girls.
'And helmets,' said the other.
'And greaves,' said Mrs Moffat.
'Graves?' boomed Mrs Pringle from the Ancient Britons' camp opposite. 'Graves? We having a war then? If so, I ted you straight, my leg won't stand up to it!'
'Leg-pads—like in cricket,' volunteered a nephew of Mr Rogers at the forge, who attends Caxley Grammar School and is well up in greaves, helmets and other martial garments.
Mrs Pringle snorted her disgust.
'Got quite enough on me leg with me elastic stocking,' said that lady, 'without getting meself dolled-up in wicket-keeper's rubbish.'
With brilliant dash Mrs Partridge put all to rights.
'You won't need to be bothered with leg-pads, Mrs Pringle. As an Ancient Briton, I want you to be the mother of the chief warrior—a most important person—and you will sit on a kind of throne by the camp fire—which won't try your poor leg that you're always so brave about—and generally keep an eye on the rest of the tribe.'
Mrs Pringle allowed herself to be mollified, and something very like a gratified smirk spread over her dour features. It is no wonder that Mrs Partridge is elected annually as our president. No one else can touch her for spontaneous and inspired diplomacy.
As a nasty little wind had sneaked up, and the children were beginning to get restive, it was thought best to have a rudimentary rehearsal of the scene at once.
'You must pretend to have weapons and tools,' shouted Mrs Partridge, above the general movement. 'One of you boys fetch a stool for Mrs Pringle, and that flower urn can be the camp fire.'
Slowly the Ancient Britons began to move shamefacedly about their occupations, their children tending to stand about with broad grins on their faces and with many a giggle behind hands. Mrs Pringle squatted in an unlovely attitude on her small stool, and folded her arms regally. Other women stirred imaginary pots, washed imaginary clothes, swept imaginary floors and occasionally cuffed far-from-imaginary children who crossed their path.
Meanwhile we Roman soldiers formed a ragged column behind the laurel bushes, awaiting our entrance. We waited until one of the tribesmen had returned to his fellows, showing by gestures that we were about to descend upon them. The Ancient Britons were then supposed to point towards us dramatically, making low uncouth cries at the same time, as they bunched together in trepidation.
The low, uncouth cries they did rather wed, as dramatically out-flung arms hit nearby bodies with considerable force. At a nervous command from our leader, Mrs Moffat, we marched into action from behind the laurels. The fact that some of us had started on the left, and some on the right foot, that we were ad too close and tended to trip each other up, did not enhance our war-like aspect. But never can a Roman cohort have been so polite, and it was quite pretty to hear us ad apologizing to each other as we stumbled along.
We approached our future captives, smiling faintly upon them. They beamed back, and we ad mingled together in the happiest fraternity round the flower-urn and Mrs Pringle.
Mrs Partridge clapped her hands and we sat down thankfully.
'Very good indeed,' said she, with the greatest vigour. 'I think it's a wonderful beginning. When the soldiers have got their cardboard armour on, and their kilts,' (Mr Rogers's nephew, as a coming classics man, shuddered and turned pale) 'and the Ancient Britons are wearing their old fur and dreary hair, I think we shad all be quite—' she searched for the exact word, looked it over, found it good, and flung it at us triumphantly—'quite irresistible?
Flown with such heady praise we ad returned, in great good spirits, to our homes.
MAY
A S usual, the holidays slipped by in a golden haze. Apart from four crowded days in London, staying with a married friend with three young children, and having the excitement of an evening at the ballet, shopping and meals out, I spent the rest of the time here at the school-house. The
'And helmets,' said the other.
'And greaves,' said Mrs Moffat.
'Graves?' boomed Mrs Pringle from the Ancient Britons' camp opposite. 'Graves? We having a war then? If so, I ted you straight, my leg won't stand up to it!'
'Leg-pads—like in cricket,' volunteered a nephew of Mr Rogers at the forge, who attends Caxley Grammar School and is well up in greaves, helmets and other martial garments.
Mrs Pringle snorted her disgust.
'Got quite enough on me leg with me elastic stocking,' said that lady, 'without getting meself dolled-up in wicket-keeper's rubbish.'
With brilliant dash Mrs Partridge put all to rights.
'You won't need to be bothered with leg-pads, Mrs Pringle. As an Ancient Briton, I want you to be the mother of the chief warrior—a most important person—and you will sit on a kind of throne by the camp fire—which won't try your poor leg that you're always so brave about—and generally keep an eye on the rest of the tribe.'
Mrs Pringle allowed herself to be mollified, and something very like a gratified smirk spread over her dour features. It is no wonder that Mrs Partridge is elected annually as our president. No one else can touch her for spontaneous and inspired diplomacy.
As a nasty little wind had sneaked up, and the children were beginning to get restive, it was thought best to have a rudimentary rehearsal of the scene at once.
'You must pretend to have weapons and tools,' shouted Mrs Partridge, above the general movement. 'One of you boys fetch a stool for Mrs Pringle, and that flower urn can be the camp fire.'
Slowly the Ancient Britons began to move shamefacedly about their occupations, their children tending to stand about with broad grins on their faces and with many a giggle behind hands. Mrs Pringle squatted in an unlovely attitude on her small stool, and folded her arms regally. Other women stirred imaginary pots, washed imaginary clothes, swept imaginary floors and occasionally cuffed far-from-imaginary children who crossed their path.
Meanwhile we Roman soldiers formed a ragged column behind the laurel bushes, awaiting our entrance. We waited until one of the tribesmen had returned to his fellows, showing by gestures that we were about to descend upon them. The Ancient Britons were then supposed to point towards us dramatically, making low uncouth cries at the same time, as they bunched together in trepidation.
The low, uncouth cries they did rather wed, as dramatically out-flung arms hit nearby bodies with considerable force. At a nervous command from our leader, Mrs Moffat, we marched into action from behind the laurels. The fact that some of us had started on the left, and some on the right foot, that we were ad too close and tended to trip each other up, did not enhance our war-like aspect. But never can a Roman cohort have been so polite, and it was quite pretty to hear us ad apologizing to each other as we stumbled along.
We approached our future captives, smiling faintly upon them. They beamed back, and we ad mingled together in the happiest fraternity round the flower-urn and Mrs Pringle.
Mrs Partridge clapped her hands and we sat down thankfully.
'Very good indeed,' said she, with the greatest vigour. 'I think it's a wonderful beginning. When the soldiers have got their cardboard armour on, and their kilts,' (Mr Rogers's nephew, as a coming classics man, shuddered and turned pale) 'and the Ancient Britons are wearing their old fur and dreary hair, I think we shad all be quite—' she searched for the exact word, looked it over, found it good, and flung it at us triumphantly—'quite irresistible?
Flown with such heady praise we ad returned, in great good spirits, to our homes.
MAY
A S usual, the holidays slipped by in a golden haze. Apart from four crowded days in London, staying with a married friend with three young children, and having the excitement of an evening at the ballet, shopping and meals out, I spent the rest of the time here at the school-house. The
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