ed much later. Well, perhaps they
are right.

Then, when you are at Warwick, you must go to Guy's Cliff, which is
about a mile and a half away. There, in the chapel, is a statue of
Guy, very old and broken.

You will also see there Fair Phyllis's Walk, the spring from which Guy
used to drink, still called Guy's Well, and the cave where he lived as
a hermit, and where he died.

Upon the walls of the cave is some writing. You will not be able to
read it, for it is Saxon, but it means, "Cast out, Thou Christ, from
Thy servant this burden."

Did Guy, I wonder, or some other, in days of loneliness and despair,
carve these words?

If you ask why Guy did these things--why, when he was happy and had
everything he could desire, he threw away that happiness, and wandered
out into the world to endure hunger, and weariness, and suffering--or
why, when at last he came back and found his beautiful wife waiting
and longing for his return, he did not go to her and be happy again,
I cannot tell you certainly. But perhaps it may be explained in this
way. In those far-off days there was nothing for great men to do but
fight. What they had they had won by the sword, and they kept it
by the sword. So they went swaggering over the world, fighting and
shedding blood, and the more men a knight killed, the more blood he
shed, the greater was his fame. It was impossible for a man to live in
the world and be at peace with his fellows. So when he desired peace
he had to cut himself off from the world and all who lived in it, and
go to live like a hermit in some lonely cave, or wander as a pilgrim
in desolate places. And so it was with Guy.

WHITTINGTON AND HIS CAT

ADAPTED BY ERNEST RHYS

In the reign of the famous King Edward III. there was a little boy
called Dick Whittington, whose father and mother died when he was very
young, so that he remembered nothing at all about them, and was left
a ragged little fellow, running about a country village. As poor Dick
was not old enough to work, he was very badly off; he got but little
for his dinner, and sometimes nothing at all for his breakfast; for
the people who lived in the village were very poor indeed, and could
not spare him much more than the parings of potatoes, and now and then
a hard crust of bread.

For all this Dick Whittington was a very sharp boy, and was always
listening to what everybody talked about. On Sunday he was sure to
get near the farmers, as they sat talkin