disconcerted them--a sound sharp and piercing. The Registrar had
finished his whistle and was blowing like mad, moving his fingers
up and down. Having proved his instrument, he dived a hand into his
tail-pocket and drew out a roll, tied around with ribbon. It was the
folded leather-bound volume in which he kept his blank certificates.
And spreading it on his knees, he took his whistle again and blew,
reading his music from the blank pages, and piping a strain he had
never dreamed of. For he whistled of Births and Marriages.

O, happy Registrar! O, happy, happy Registrar! You will never get into
those elastic-sides again. Your feet swell as they tap the swelling
earth, and at each tap the flowers push, the sap climbs, the speck of
life moves in the hedge-sparrow's egg; while, far away on the downs,
with each tap, the yellow van takes bride and groom a foot nearer
felicity. It is hard work in worsted socks, for you smite with the
vehemence of Pan, and Pan had a hoof of horn.

* * * * *

The Registrar's mother lived in the fishing-village, two miles down
the coombe. Her cottage leant back against the cliff so closely, that
the boys, as they followed the path above, could toss tabs of turf
down her chimney: and this was her chief annoyance.

Now, it was close on the dinner-hour, and she stood in her kitchen
beside a pot of stew that simmered over the wreck-wood fire.

Suddenly a great lump of earth and grass came bouncing down the
chimney, striking from side to side, and soused into the pot,
scattering the hot stew over the hearth-stone and splashing her from