Seth Shellett, waking on Midsummer Day, thought first of Noke’s daughter, Charity; and not for several seconds did he remember that today it was his duty and pleasure to tie a green ribbon in his hat, and cut a stick of hazel, and take his part in the year’s high festival In this he differed from most of his neighbours, who for weeks had talked of little else than the coming celebrations. For on Midsummer Day, each year, the folk of Marden Fee made festival. Work was abandoned; authority, with its own consent, was set aside; and the day was dedicated to feasting and the night to saturnalia. Until noon, however, everything was done according to rule and tradition, and of this tradition the Marden Club was the faithful guardian. The club had been founded by Bertram Marden, the first squire of the Fee (of whom only the incorrigible Coachy professed a personal knowledge); but the midsummer ritual it was so zealous in practising was of immemorial antiquity. No one knew, or inquired, when or by whom it was first ordained that on a chosen day of each year the men of that parish, led by a banner-bearer and each carrying a peeled hazel wand cut from the hedges, must assemble at The Nick of Time, and thence, having answered to their names, march up the High Street in the wake of seven white-veiled maidens, and so to church, where the priest awaited them. Lightly screened by a veil, even the plainest girl looked a little enticing, as the men were not slow to notice; and there was always a good deal of giggling among the vestals. But by the time the procession reached the church, the women’s demeanour was as modest as the men’s was solemn. There were wardens at each door to see that no clubfellow escaped his duty; and few attempted to do so, for the pleasure of defaulting was not worth the risk of forfeiting one’s seat at the club dinner. For the most part they sat through the service with a good grace and thought of the feast that was to come, though today there were not wanting those who spared at least enough attention to the admonition to entitle them to say, afterwards, that Parson Hockley were no match for old Parson Croup. ‘A good sarment, but he do beat the devil round the gooseberry bush so much, tis all a body can do to keep waken.’ Parson Croup had died ten years ago, and his successor, a foreigner from Kent, had the inevitable faults of a novice. ‘A middlin raw discourse,’ said Mykelborne. ‘But I say naun to that, for you can’t expect better, seeing he be so new to ut. Festival’s not what it was, neighbours. Parson Croup, when he’d a mind to’t, would send ye to dinner so full of God’s fear as liddle shart of fi’ pints would drive un away. A laamentable pretty preacher was Parson Croup on club days.’