“Ain’t it lovely?” whispers a small girl behind her hand.
And the music breaks into bright pieces, and joins together again, and again breaks, and is dissolved, and the crowd scatters, moving slowly up the hill.
At the corner of the road the stalls begin.
“Ticklers! Tuppence a tickler! ’Ool ’ave a tickler? Tickle ’em up, boys.” Little soft brooms on wire handles. They are eagerly bought by the soldiers.
“Buy a golliwog! Tuppence a golliwog!”
“Buy a jumping donkey! All alive-oh!”
“Su-perior chewing gum. Buy something to do, boys.”
“Buy a rose. Give ’er a rose, boy. Roses, lady?”
“Fevvers! Fevvers!”? They are hard to resist. Lovely, streaming feathers, emerald green, scarlet, bright blue, canary yellow. Even the babies wear feathers threaded through their bonnets.
And an old woman in a three-cornered paper hat cries as if it were her final parting advice, the only way of saving yourself or of bringing him to his senses: “Buy a three-cornered ’at, my dear, an’ put it on!”
It is a flying day, half sun, half wind. When the sun goes in a shadow flies over; when it comes out again it is fiery. The men and women feel it burning their backs, their breasts
