At the Village Fair 85 



times as large, its attractions, one would imagine, incal- 

 culably greater. Nothing of the kind : its annual fair is 

 not nearly so important an event to the village mind as 

 that of an old-world slumberous place removed from the 

 current of civilisation. This place, which is perhaps eight 

 or nine miles by road, with no facilities of communication, 

 has from time immemorial had a reputation for its fair. 

 There, accordingly, the scattered rural population wends, 

 making no account of distance and very little of weather : 

 it is a country maxim that it always rains on fair day, and 

 mostly thunders. There they assemble and enjoy them- 

 selves in the old-fashioned way, which consists in standing 

 in the streets, buying ' fairings ' for the girls, shooting for 

 nuts, visiting all the shows, and so on. 



To push one's way through such a crowd is no simple 

 matter ; the countryman does not mean to be rude, but he 

 has not the faintest conception that politeness demands 

 a little yielding. He has to be shoved, and makes no 

 objection. A city crowd is to a certain extent mobile — 

 each recognises that he must give way. A country crowd 

 stands stock-still. 



The thumping of drums, the blaring of trumpets, the 

 tootling of pan-pipes in front of the shows, fill the air with 

 a din which may be heard miles away, and seem to give 

 the crowd intense pleasure — far more than the crack band 

 of the Coldstream Guards could impart. Nor are they 

 ever weary of gazing at the ' pelican of the wilderness ' as 

 the showman describes it — a mournful bird with draggled 

 feathers standing by the entrance, a traditional part of his 

 stock-in-trade. One attraction — perhaps the strongest — 

 may be found in the fact that all the countryside is sure 

 to be there. Each labourer or labouring woman will meet 

 acquaintances from distant villages they have not seen or 



