In Maytime | Page 4

grey stone buildings, a long
thread of living colour. Before Timothy well knew what he was doing,
he found himself pressing eagerly on with the crowd to the May-pole
green. The flower-crowned pole was loosed from behind the patient
oxen, and borne upon eager shoulders to the centre of the green. It was
raised aloft in the air, tottered for an instant, a great cheer went up, and
it sank into its socket. Then struck up the fiddles and pipes, the dancers
hastened to their May-poles, and holding aloft the gay streamers began
the dance with a bow and a courtesy.
"All fair lasses have lads to attend 'em, Jolly, brave dancers who can
amend 'em."
They wound the coloured ribbons about the four poles, while the rest of
the merrymakers danced at will and to the lilt of the gay tunes, in twos
and threes, as their fancy led them.
Timothy watched two flower-girls, tripping a measure with a forester,
smiling at him over their shoulders, and finally giving him each a hand
and dancing away into the crowd. He felt his pulses beat the time as
they had never done in a ballroom. It was the open air, and the gay
costumes, arid the spirit of Old England, which had somehow taken
possession of him. Here was nothing but sunshine and feasting and
dancing all day; and after sundown, rest under a hawthorne bush.
Timothy even longed to give a hand to that dainty shepherdess and join
in the dance.
"Come together, come, sweet lass, Let us trip it on the grass."
Presently the music ceased and the dancers scattered to their separate

plays. Timothy suddenly bethought him of his cousin. For the moment
his desire to claim acquaintance with an Old Englander got the better of
his hatred of college girls, and he asked one of the nearest groups
where he might find Miss Hall. A tall marshal standing near heard the
question, and turned around with a start.
"Did you ask for Miss Hall?" she said. "I will be glad to direct you if
you will come with me."
Now Timothy was unaccustomed to having young women, with golden
hair, and shining, eager eyes, hold out their hands to him, and say,
"Come with me!" He was so taken by surprise that with a mumbled,
"Much obliged, I'm sure," he followed her meekly through the crowd
towards Dalton Hall.
"It is most unusual," he told himself with misgiving, "for her to address
me, a complete stranger, in this way. It must be the policy of the
college to propitiate outsiders. I wonder if she would do it to every
one."
Then, quite irrelevantly, he wondered if he had on his most becoming
shape of collar. For some reason he felt very tolerant towards this girl's
naive eagerness.
Presently she turned back to him, and said: "Would you not like to
come over here and see The Ladie of the Maie? It is such a pretty little
play."
"After all," thought Timothy, "no one knows me here."
He followed her submissively to the very front row of spectators, and
sat down on the grass, a thing he had not done before for at least ten
years. While they watched, the marshal explained that these shepherds
and shepherdesses were all grave seniors, and in one more month
would be Bachelors of Arts in fur-trimmed hoods. She told him all the
old oral jokes, and Timothy, to whom they were quite new, was
much-diverted. In return he raked up his almost forgotten college tales.
They were not new to the marshal, but she appreciated them so sweetly

that Timothy thought they must be even more amusing than he had
fancied.
The shepherds departed with their flocks of white, softly-bleating sheep,
but before the audience had time to wish them back, a gay, rollicking
ditty struck up, and the chimney-sweeps came running in,
Jack-o'-the-Green leading. They joined hands and danced around him
in a circle, still to the same rollicking measure, while Jack-o'-the-Green,
peering through his covering of branches and leaves, bowed to each
one in turn. The music stopped with a quick chord, the chimney-sweeps
dropped to their knees and pointed their brooms at the figure in the
middle. Then the music began again, and with their brooms in front of
them, they ran out. Timothy and his guide stood up, and moved onward
with the crowd. He began to feel that there was no immediate necessity
of finding Marian Hall. He could just as well take a later train back to
town. The marshal was very courteous, and he did not wish to appear
rude by leaving her too unceremoniously. He even wished something
would happen to detain him.
"I want to take you to the Saint George Plaie," said