sharp whistle
and, in anything above half-a-gale, to a scream. But to _see_ what
the weather was like, you must go to the front porch.

Nicky-Nan went to the front porch and gazed skyward. The wind--as
the saying is--had "catched in," and was blowing briskly from the
north-west, chasing diaphanous clouds across the blue zenith.
The roofs still shone wet and dazzling, and there were puddles in the
street. But he knew the afternoon was going to be a fine one.
He took pleasure in this when, a few moments later, his ear caught
the thudding of a distant drum. . . . Yes, yes--it was Bank Holiday,
and the children would be assembling, up the valley, for the
Anniversary Treat of the Wesleyan Sunday School. There would be
waggons waiting to convey them up-inland to Squire Tresawna's
pleasure-grounds--to high shaven lawns whereon, for once in the year,
they could enjoy themselves running about upon the level.
(In Polpier, as any mother there will tell you, a boy has to wear out
his exuberance mostly on the seat of his breeches and bring it to a
check by digging in his heels somewhere. And the wastage at these
particular points of his tailoring persists when he grows up to
manhood; for a crabber sits much on the thwart of a boat and drives
with his heels against a stretcher. Thus it happens that
three-fourths of Billy Bosistow's cobbling is devoted to the
"trigging" of boot-heels, while the wives, who mend all the small
clothes, have long ago and by consent given up any pretence of
harmonising the patch with the original garment. At Troy and at
St Martin's they will tell you that every Polpier man carries about
his home-address on his person, and will rudely indicate where.
Mrs Penhaligon put it one day in more delicate proverbial form.
"In a rabbit-warren," she said, "you learn not to notice scuts.")

While Nicky-Nan--who, as we have said, had a fondness for children--
stood and eyed the weather with approval, Mrs Penhaligon came
bustling out, with her bonnet on.

"Lord sakes!" she exclaimed. "Be that the drum already? What a
whirl one does live in!--and if there's one thing I hate more'n
another, 'tis to be fussed."

"What about the children, ma'am?"

"The children? . . . Gone on this half-hour, I should hope.
'Beida's a good gel enough, when once ye've coaxed her into her best
things. It sobers her you can't think. She'll look after 'Biades
an' see that he don't put 'Lead us, Heavenly Father, lead us' into
hi