ng one of those old English ballads to
hear which we had regarded as the sole privilege of the select few who
were invited to take tea at the vicarage, at the sewing meetings which
we had associated with the name of Dorcas the widow. We should as soon
have thought of seeing Dorcas herself at a sewing-machine as the
vicar's sister at a piano _in public_--but she sang very well, and the
applause at the back of the room was uproarious.

So it was when the vicar himself followed with Macaulay's "Lay of
Horatius," though of course it was only intended for the front rows--for
how _could_ the tradespeople and the labourers understand it? More to
their taste was the performance of Mr. Binks, who was with difficulty
persuaded to sit on the platform, where, after fixing his eye on the
remotest corner of the ceiling, he began by giving himself a circular
twist on his chair and, moving his arm as though he were gently whipping
a horse, started with a prolonged "Oh-o-o!" and then stopped, coughed,
cogitated, and, gathering courage from the ceiling, started again with a
more emphatic

"Oh-o-o! Terry O'Rann
Was a nice young man,"

and went on to describe in song how some person of that name

"Took whisky punch
Every day for his lunch."

The landlord of the George, who was about the middle of the room, shook
his head in a deprecating manner at this, and we ladies in the front row
were saddened; but the vicar laughed, the brewer led off a round of
applause with the farmers, the doctor grinned, and the smaller
tradespeople and the boys near the door stamped till the dust from the
floor made them sneeze; and when

"Jerry's dead ghost
Stood by the bed-post,"

with an imitation of the Irish brogue which everybody admitted was
singularly "like the real thing," Mr. Binks had risen in public
estimation, and his name was put down on the committee.

The baker was scarcely so successful, for he could remember nothing but
the Christmas Carol by which he had risen to transient fame; and as it
contained some slight but obvious allusions to Raspall's French rolls
and Sally Lunns, with a distant but rhyming reference to rich plum-cake
and currant buns, a few disrespectful ejaculations were heard from some
unruly boys on the side benches, and the recitation ended in some
confusion and suppressed chuckling on the part of the farmers and their
wives. But the eldest Miss Rumbelow wa