in his career, fell plump backwards, knocking down the rest of the
line like a nest of card-houses. There is no harm done; but there
they lie, roaring, kicking, sprawling, in every attitude of comic
distress, whilst Jack Rapley and Mayflower, sole authors of this
calamity, stand apart from the throng, fondling, and coquetting, and
complimenting each other, and very visibly laughing, May in her
black eyes, Jack in his wide, close-shut mouth, and his whole
monkey-face, at their comrades' mischances. I think, Miss May, you
may as well come up again, and leave Master Rapley to fight your
battles. He'll get out of the scrape. He is a rustic wit--a sort
of Robin Goodfellow--the sauciest, idlest, cleverest, best-natured
boy in the parish; always foremost in mischief, and always ready to
do a good turn. The sages of our village predict sad things of Jack
Rapley, so that I am sometimes a little ashamed to confess, before
wise people, that I have a lurking predilection for him (in common
with other naughty ones), and that I like to hear him talk to May
almost as well as she does. 'Come, May!' and up she springs, as
light as a bird. The road is gay now; carts and post-chaises, and
girls in red cloaks, and, afar off, looking almost like a toy, the
coach. It meets us fast and soon. How much happier the walkers
look than the riders--especially the frost-bitten gentleman, and the
shivering lady with the invisible face, sole passengers of that
commodious machine! Hooded, veiled, and bonneted, as she is, one
sees from her attitude how miserable she would look uncovered.

Another pond, and another noise of children. More sliding? Oh no!
This is a sport of higher pretension. Our good neighbour, the
lieutenant, skating, and his own pretty little boys, and two or
three other four-year-old elves, standing on the brink in an ecstasy
of joy and wonder! Oh what happy spectators! And what a happy