woodland stream and allowed them to bathe; then he seated
himself on their discarded garments and discoursed on their
immediate future, which, he decreed, was to embrace a
Bacchanalian procession through the village. Forethought had
provided the occasion with a supply of tin whistles, but the
introduction of a he-goat from a neighbouring orchard was a
brilliant afterthought. Properly, Reginald explained, there
should have been an outfit of panther skins; as it was, those
who had spotted handkerchiefs were allowed to wear them,
which they did with thankfulness. Reginald recognised the
impossibility, in the time at his disposal, of teaching his
shivering neophytes a chant in honour of Bacchus, so he
started them off with a more familiar, if less appropriate,
temperance hymn. After all, he said, it is the spirit of the
thing that counts. Following the etiquette of dramatic
authors on first nights, he remained discreetly in the
background while the procession, with extreme diffidence and
the goat, wound its way lugubriously towards the village.
The singing had died down long before the main street was
reached, but the miserable wailing of pipes brought the
inhabitants to their doors. Reginald said he had seen
something like it in pictures; the villagers had seen nothing
like it in their lives, and remarked as much freely.

Reginald's family never forgave him. They had no sense of
humour.



REGINALD ON WORRIES