The music gives over, and my host
addresses them from between the roses of his porch, and they laugh at his
genial jokes with the unanimity of the footlights. There are tiny tots
and old women in the background, and yonder is the Village Beauty--a ripe
maid, i' faith, and a comely. There are other girls in her train; but,
oddsbobs! what have they done with their tights? and why do they delay to
announce her approaching marriage in merry melodic chorus? But I conceal
my surprise and, as the cynical Man from Town (gadzooks!), ogle the Pride
of the Village, to the disgust of her rural swain, who has started
blowing the trombone and dare not desist, though his cheeks get redder
and more explosive each instant. In the next Act we all go down to the
annual dinner, in a long rose-wreathed tent, and the Parson says grace
and the Parson's Clerk "Amen," and the Squire (in corduroy knickerbockers
and leggings) bestows his benediction on all the village, while without,
the happy peasants project sticks at cocoanuts or try their strength with
mallets, and all is virtuous and feudal. In the third Act we are in the
Vicarage Garden--a beautiful set, with real rhododendrons. Sir Roger de
Coverley takes tea i'fackins with the Parson, and the Stalwart Farmer
passes the sugar to the Man from Town, who is gazing out wistfully
towards the Village Green, where the Village Beauty foots it featly with
the Village Idiot.
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