“But beggars, and people like that?” persisted Anthea “and tramps and people who haven’t any homes?” “People who haven’t any homes?” repeated the lady. “I really _don’t_ understand what you’re talking about.” “It’s all different in our country,” said Cyril carefully; and I have read it used to be different in London. Usedn’t people to have no homes and beg because they were hungry? And wasn’t London very black and dirty once upon a time? And the Thames all muddy and filthy? And narrow streets, and—” “You must have been reading very old-fashioned books,” said the lady. “Why, all that was in the dark ages! My husband can tell you more about it than I can. He took Ancient History as one of his special subjects.” “I haven’t seen any working people,” said Anthea. “Why, we’re all working people,” said the lady; “at least my husband’s a carpenter.” “Good gracious!” said Anthea; “but you’re a lady!” “Ah,” said the lady, “that quaint old word! Well, my husband _will_ enjoy a talk with you. In the dark ages everyone was allowed to have a smoky chimney, and those nasty horses all over the streets, and all sorts of rubbish thrown into the Thames. And, of course, the sufferings of the people will hardly bear thinking of. It’s very learned of you to know it all. Did _you_ make Ancient History your special subject?” “Not exactly,” said Cyril, rather uneasily. “What is the Duties of Citizenship Course about?” “Don’t you _really_ know? Aren’t you pretending—just for fun? Really not? Well, that course teaches you how to be a good citizen, what you must do and what you mayn’t do, so as to do your full share of the work of making your town a beautiful and happy place for people to live in. There’s a quite simple little thing they teach the tiny children. How does it go...? “I must not steal and I must learn, Nothing is mine that I do not earn. I must try in work and play To make things beautiful every day. I must be kind to everyone, And never let cruel things be done. I must be brave, and I must try When I am hurt never to cry, And always laugh as much as I can, And be glad that I’m going to be a man To work for my living and help the rest And never do less than my very best.” “That’s very easy,” said Jane. “_I_ could remember that.” “That’s only the very beginning, of course,” said the lady; “there are heaps more rhymes. There’s the one beginning— “I must not litter the beautiful street With bits of paper or things to eat; I must not pick the public flowers, They are not _mine_, but they are _ours_.” “And ‘things to eat’ reminds me—are you hungry? Wells, run and get a tray of nice things.” “Why do you call him ‘Wells’?” asked Robert, as the boy ran off.