Sing Holiday! You do not know How to be free. The Russian snow Flowered with bright blood whose roses spread Petals of fading, fading red That died into the snow again, Into the virgin snow; and men From all ancient bonds were freed. Old law, old custom, and old creed, Old right and wrong there bled to death; The frozen air received their breath, A little smoke that died away; And round about them where they lay The snow bloomed roses. Blood was there A red gay flower and only fair. Sing Holiday! Beneath the Tree Of Innocence and Liberty, Paper Nose and Red Cockade Dance within the magic shade That makes them drunken, merry, and strong To laugh and sing their ferial song: ‘Free, free...!’ But Echo answers Faintly to the laughing dancers, ‘Free’--and faintly laughs, and still, Within the hollows of the hill, Faintlier laughs and whispers, ‘Free,’ Fadingly, diminishingly: ‘Free,’ and laughter faints away... Sing Holiday! Sing Holiday!” He folded the sheet carefully and put it in his pocket. The thing had its merits. Oh, decidedly, decidedly! But how unpleasant the crowd smelt! He lit a cigarette. The smell of cows was preferable. He passed through the gate in the park wall into the garden. The swimming-pool was a centre of noise and activity. “Second Heat in the Young Ladies’ Championship.” It was the polite voice of Henry Wimbush. A crowd of sleek, seal-like figures in black bathing-dresses surrounded him. His grey bowler hat, smooth, round, and motionless in the midst of a moving sea, was an island of aristocratic calm. Holding his tortoise-shell-rimmed pince-nez an inch or two in front of his eyes, he read out names from a list. “Miss Dolly Miles, Miss Rebecca Balister, Miss Doris Gabell...” Five young persons ranged themselves on the brink. From their seats of honour at the other end of the pool, old Lord Moleyn and Mr. Callamay looked on with eager interest. Henry Wimbush raised his hand. There was an expectant silence. “When I say ‘Go,’ go. Go!” he said. There was an almost simultaneous splash. Denis pushed his way through the spectators. Somebody plucked him by the sleeve; he looked down. It was old Mrs. Budge.