“Remember us poor Mayers all.—­
     And thus do we begin,
     To lead our lives in righteousness,
     Or else we die in sin.

    We have been rambling all this night,
     And almost all this day,
     And now returning back again,
     We bring you in the May.

    The hedges and trees they are so green,
     In the sunne’s goodly heat,
     Our Heavenly Father He watered them
     With His Heavenly dew so sweet.

     A branch of May we have brought you—–­”

Here came a pause and the chorus dropped into an uncertain murmur.  John Walden heard his garden gates swing back on their hinges, and a shuffling crunch of numerous small feet on the gravel path.

“G’arn, Susie!” cried a shrill boy’s voice—­“If y’are leadin’ us, lead!  G’arn!”

A sweet flute-like treble responded to this emphatic adjuration, singing alone, clear and high,

    “A branch of May—–­” and then all the other voices chimed in: 

    “A branch of May we have brought you
     And at your door it stands,
     ’Tis but a sprout,
     But ’tis budded out
     By the work of our Lord’s hands!”

And with this, a great crown of crimson and white blossoms, set on a tall, gaily-painted pole and adorned with bright coloured ribbons, came nid-nodding down the box-tree alley to the middle of the lawn opposite Walden’s study window, where it was quickly straightened up and held in position by the eager hands of some twenty or thirty children, of all sizes and ages, who, surrounding it at its base, turned their faces, full of shy exultation towards their pastor, still singing, but in more careful time and tune: 

    “The Heavenly gates are open wide,
     Our paths are beaten plain,
     And if a man be not too far gone,
     He may return again.

    The moon shines bright and the stars give light
     A little before it is day,
     So God bless you all, both great and small,
     And send you a merrie May!”

II

For a moment or two Walden found himself smitten by so strong a sense of the mere simple sensuous joy of living, that he could do no more than stand looking in silent admiration at the pretty group of expectant young creatures gathered round the Maypole, and huddled, as it were, under its cumbrous crown of dewy blossoms, which showed vividly against the clear sky, while the long streamers of red, white and blue depending from its summit, trailed on the daisy-sprinkled grass at their feet.