behave as such that was his own lookout. But in spite of
much valiant talk no hero was found willing to take sword and
spear and free the suffering village and win deathless fame; and
each night's heated discussion always ended in nothing.
Meanwhile the dragon, a happy Bohemian, lolled on the turf,
enjoyed the sunsets, told antediluvian anecdotes to the Boy, and
polished his old verses while meditating on fresh ones.

One day the Boy, on walking in to the village, found everything
wearing a festal appearance which was not to be accounted for in
the calendar. Carpets and gay-coloured stuffs were hung out of
the windows, the church-bells clamoured noisily, the little
street was flower-strewn, and the whole population jostled each
other along either side of it, chattering, shoving, and ordering
each other to stand back. The Boy saw a friend of his own age in
the crowd and hailed him.

"What's up?" he cried. "Is it the players, or bears, or a
circus, or what?"

"It's all right," his friend hailed back. "He's a-coming."

"WHO'S a-coming?" demanded the Boy, thrusting into the throng.

"Why, St. George, of course," replied his friend. "He's heard
tell of our dragon, and he's comin' on purpose to slay the deadly
beast, and free us from his horrid yoke. O my! won't there be a
jolly fight!"

Here was news indeed! The Boy felt that he ought to make quite