Chorus as before.

From the beginning of the day, however, it became apparent that there was a concerted movement under way to heckle the Pan-Antis.  As the Gooseberry Anthem came to an end a number of men were observed on the skyline of a tall building, wig-wagging with flags.  All eyes were turned aloft, and much speculation ensued among the waiting thousands as to the meaning of the signals.  Then a cry of anger burst from one of the section leaders, who was acquainted with the Morse code.  The flags were spelling what A day for A drink!  All down the Boulevard the white and gold banners tossed in anger.  To those above, the mass of agitated chuffs looked like a field of daisies in a wind.

Shortly afterward the familiar buzz of airplane motors was heard, and three silver-gray machines came coasting above the channel of the Boulevard.  They flew low, and it was easy to read the initials C.P.H. painted on the nether surface of their wings.  Over the front ranks of the parade (which was beginning to fall in line) they executed a series of fantastic twirls.  Then, as though at a concerted signal, they dropped a cloud of paper slips which came eddying down through the sunlight.  The chuffs scrambled for them, wondering.  A sullen murmur rose when the messages were read.  They ran thus:—­

    To make gooseberry wine

    (Paste This in Your Hat),

    Ten quarts of gooseberries, thoroughly
        crushed;
    Over these, five quarts of water are flushed. 
    Twice round the clock let the fluid remain,
    Then through a sieve the blithe mixture you
          strain,
    Adding some sugar (not less than ten pound)
    And stirring it carefully, round and around.

To the pulp of the fruit that remains in the
sieve
A gallon of pure filtered water you give: 
This you let stand for a dozen of hours,
Then add to the other to strengthen its powers. 
Shut up the whole for the space of a day
And it will ferment in a riotous way.

When you see by the froth that the fluid grows
thicker
You, should skim it (with glee) for it’s turning
to liquor! 
While it ferments, please continue to skim: 
At the end, you may murmur the Bartender’s
Hymn. 
This makes a booze that is potent enough—­
Seal in a hogshead—­and hide it from Chuff!

Corporation for the
Perpetuation of Happiness.

The Pan-Antis were still muttering furiously over this daring act of defiance when a shrill bugle-call pealed down the avenue.  Bishop Chuff rode out into the middle of the street on his famous coal-black charger, John Barleycorn.  There was a long hush.  Then, with a wave of his hand, he gave the signal.  One hundred bands burst into the somber and clanging strains of “The Face on the Bar-Room Floor.”  The great parade had begun.