“Here’s a nice soft place; there is no gorse here.  Now tell me the legend.”

“Well, I never!” said Kitty, sitting herself on the spot that had been chosen for her, “you do astonish me.  You never heard of the legend of St Cuthman.”

“No, do tell it to me.”

“Well, I scarcely know how to tell it in ordinary words, for I learnt it in poetry.”

“In poetry!  In whose poetry?”

“Evy Austen put it into poetry, the eldest of the girls, and they made me recite it at the harvest supper.”

“Oh, that’s awfully jolly—­I never should have thought she was so clever.  Evy is the dark-haired one.”

“Yes, Evy is awfully clever; but she doesn’t talk much about it.”

“Do recite it.”

“I don’t know that I can remember it all.  You won’t laugh if I break down.”

“I promise.”

    THE LEGEND OF ST CUTHMAN.

    “St Cuthman stood on a point which crowns
    The entire range of the grand South Downs;
    Beneath his feet, like a giant field,
    Was stretched the expanse of the Sussex Weald. 
    ‘Suppose,’ said the Saint,’’twas the will of Heaven
    To cause this range of hills to be riven,
    And what were the use of prayers and whinings,
    Were the sea to flood the village of Poynings: 
    ’Twould be fine, no doubt, these Downs to level,
    But to do such a thing I defy the Devil!’
    St Cuthman, tho’ saint, was a human creature,
    And his eye, a bland and benevolent feature,
    Remarked the approach of the close of day,
    And he thought of his supper, and turned away. 
      Walking fast, he
    Had scarcely passed the
    First steps of his way, when he saw something nasty;
      ’Twas tall and big,
      And he saw from its rig
    ’Twas the Devil in full diabolical fig. 
      There were wanting no proofs,
      For the horns and the hoofs
    And the tail were a fully convincing sight;
      But the heart of the Saint
      Ne’er once turned faint,
    And his halo shone with redoubled light. 
      ’Hallo, I fear
      You’re trespassing here!’
    Said St Cuthman, ’To me it is perfectly clear,
    If you talk of the devil, he’s sure to appear!’
      ’With my spade and my pick
      I am come,’ said old Nick,
    ’To prove you’ve no power o’er a demon like me. 
      I’ll show you my power—­
      Ere the first morning hour
    Thro’ the Downs, over Poynings, shall roll in the sea.’ 
      ‘I’ll give you long odds,’
      Cried the Saint, ’by the gods! 
    I’ll stake what you please, only say what your wish is.’ 
      Said the devil, ’By Jove! 
      You’re a sporting old cove! 
      My pick to your soul,
      I’ll make such a hole,
    That where Poynings now stands, shall be swimming the fishes.’ 
      ‘Done!’ cried the Saint, ’but I must away