Nick Attwood's father came home that night bitterly wroth.

The burgesses of the town council had ordered him to build a chimney
upon his house, or pay ten shillings fine; and shillings were none too
plenty with Simon Attwood, the tanner of Old Town.

"Soul and body o' man!" said he, "they talk as if they owned the world,
and a man could na live upon it save by their leave. I must build my
fire in a pipe, or pay ten shillings fine? Things ha' come to a pretty
pass--a pretty pass, indeed!" He kicked the rushes that were strewn upon
the floor, and ground the clay with his heel. "This litter will ha' to
be all took out. Atkins will be here at six i' the morning to do the
job, and a lovely mess he will make o' the house!"

"Do na fret thee, Simon," said Mistress Attwood, gently. "The rushes
need a changing, and I ha' pined this long while to lay the floor wi'
new clay from Shottery common. 'Tis the sweetest earth! Nick shall take
the hangings down, and right things up when the chimley 's done."

So at cockcrow next morning Nick slipped out of his straw bed, into his
clothes, and down the winding stair, while his parents were still asleep
in the loft, and, sousing his head in the bucket at the well, began his
work before the old town clock in the chapel tower had yet struck four.

The rushes had not been changed since Easter, and were full of dust and
grease from the cooking and the table. Even the fresher sprigs of mint
among them smelled stale and old. When they were all in the barrow, Nick
sighed with relief and wiped his hands upon the dripping grass.

It had rained in the night,--a soft, warm rain,--and the air was full of