* * * * *

_Note A._--Afterwards we went and saw real Canterbury. It is very large.
A disagreeable man showed us round the cathedral, and jawed all the time
quite loud as if it wasn't a church. I remember one thing he said. It
was this:

"This is the Dean's Chapel; it was the Lady Chapel in the wicked days
when people used to worship the Virgin Mary."

And H. O. said, "I suppose they worship the Dean now?"

Some strange people who were there laughed out loud. I think this is
worse in church than not taking your cap off when you come in, as H. O.
forgot to do, because the cathedral was so big he didn't think it was a
church.

_Note B._ (_See_ Note C.)

_Note C._ (_See_ Note D.)

_Note D._ (_See_ Note E.)

_Note E._ (_See_ Note A.)

This ends the Canterbury Pilgrims.

THE DRAGON'S TEETH; OR ARMY-SEED

Albert's uncle was out on his bicycle as usual. After the day when we
became Canterbury Pilgrims and were brought home in the dog-cart with
red wheels by the lady he told us was his long-lost grandmother he had
known years ago in India, he spent not nearly so much of his time in
writing, and he used to shave every morning instead of only when
requisite, as in earlier days. And he was always going out on his
bicycle in his new Norfolk suit. We are not so unobserving as grown-up
people make out. We knew well enough he was looking for the long-lost.
And we jolly well wished he might find her. Oswald, always full of
sympathy with misfortune, however undeserved, had himself tried several
times to find the lady. So had the others. But all this is what they
call a digression; it has nothing to do with the dragon's teeth I am now
narrating.

It began with the pig dying--it was the one we had for the circus, but
it having behaved so badly that day had nothing to do with its illness
and death, though the girls said they felt remorse, and perhaps if we
hadn't made it run so that day it might have been spared to us. But
Oswald cannot pretend that people were right just because they happen to
be dead, and as long as that pig was alive we all knew well enough that
it was it that made us run--and not us it.

The pig was buried in the kitchen garden. Bill, that we made the
tombstone for, dug the grave, and while he was away at his dinner we
took a turn at digging, because we like to be useful, and besides, when
you dig you never know what you may turn up. I knew a man once that
found a gol