Girl known as Mother. Boy called Ragman.

The Mother was one of the most dependable of the older girls, who was made responsible for the behaviour of the garlanders. She carried a large, old-fashioned, double-lidded marketing basket over her arm, containing the lunches of the principal actors. The boy called Ragman carried the coats, brought in case of rain, but seldom worn, even during a shower, lest by their poverty and shabbiness they should disgrace the festive attire.

The procession stepped out briskly. Mothers waved and implored their offspring to behave well; some of the little ones left behind lifted up their voices and wept; old people came to cottage gates and said that, though well enough, this year’s procession was poor compared to some they had seen. But the garlanders paid no heed; they had their feet on the road at last and vowed they would not turn back now, “not if it rained cats and dogs”.

The first stop was at the Rectory, where the garland was planted before the front door and the shrill little voices struck up, shyly at first, but gathering confidence as they went on:

A bunch of may I have brought you

And at your door it stands.

It is but a sprout, but It’s well put about

By the Lord Almighty’s hands.

God bless the master of this house

God bless the mistress too,

And all the little children

That round the table go.

And now I’ve sung my short little song

I must no longer stay.

God bless you all, both great and small,

And send you a happy May Day.

During the singing of this the Rector’s face, wearing its mildest expression, and bedaubed with shaving lather, for it was only as yet seven o’clock, would appear at an upper window and nod approval and admiration of the garland. His daughter would be down and at the door, and for her the veil was lifted and the glory of the garland revealed. She would look, touch and smell, then slip a silver coin into the money-box, and the procession would move on towards Squire’s.

There, the lady of the house would bow haughty approval and if there were visiting grandchildren the lady would be detached from the garland and held up to their nursery window to be admired. Then Squire himself would appear in the stable doorway with a brace of sniffing, suspicious spaniels at his heels. “How many are there of you?” he would call. “Twenty-seven? Well, here’s a five-bob bit for you. Don’t quarrel over it. Now let’s have a song.”

“Not ‘A Bunch of May,’” the girl called Mother would whisper, impressed by the-five-shilling piece; “not that old-fashioned thing. Something newer,” and something newer, though still not very new, would be selected. Perhaps it would be:

All hail gentle spring

With thy sunshine and showers,

And welcome the sweet buds

That burst in the bowers;