atholguy

 they had done honour to their president had they not seated him under a floral canopy sufficient to excite the envy of the goddess herself.

And the flowers bloom in the village gardens in profusion, bloom, as they seem only to do, around the dwellings of the poor. Here are such gardens as would have provided Milton with just the flowers to "strew the laureate hearse, where Lycid lies":

. . . the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,
The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,
The white pink, and the pansy freakt with jet,
The glowing violet,
The musk rose and the well-attired woodbine,
With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,
And every flower that sad embroidery wears.

The band is heard approaching. Away fly the youngsters from the hands of their mothers, who have been for the past hour polishing their faces as well as their boots. And father, too, must be off to the headquarters of the club. Shouldering his club pole, surmounted with a shining brass top, bearing a royal crown, he joins his friends. All of them are proud; all feel it to be their day.

During long years many of them have known what a struggle it has been to "keep up their club." But they have succeeded.

That spirit of independence, which has stood the working men in such good stead in the past, has enabled them to

pay their contributions, and they realise to-day that they are bound together to help one another in times of sickness and distress. The picture on the club banner is a constant lesson of the story of the bundle of sticks.

They understand the illustration, and they are proud and rightly so because they feel they are carrying out the Divine command in realising "who is my neighbour?" They form into procession, and the day's proceedings are commenced, as they should be, by attending the parish church. The service is a simple one.

The Rector chooses for his text, "Bear ye one another's burdens." He indulges in no flights of oratory; there is no pedantry in his discourse. He gives his congregation some plain truths, and dismisses them with his blessing.
Then visits are paid to the principal residents, and even-where generous hospitality is dispensed. Huge jugs of cider, from which rise the scent of luscious fruit, are handed round, emptied, and speedily refilled.

Under the trees laden with apple blossom a dance takes place, and one imagines it must be in honour of Pomona. Then a return to the neighbourhood of the inn for dinner. The tables groan beneath the weight of steaming hot dishes, and the club men scramble into their places like a lot of hearty school boys at their annual treat.
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What a clatter of knives, forks, and spoons! And associated with it is a concert by thrushes and blackbirds,
whilst the cuckoo punctuates the performances of the other feathered songsters, and Dame Nature plays a