IN the ancient city of London, on a certain autumn day in the second quarter

Of the sixteenth century, a boy was born to a poor family of the name of

Canty, who did not want him.

On the same day another English child was born to a rich family of the name

Of Tudor, who did want him. All England wanted him too. England had so

Longed for him, and hoped for him, and prayed God for him, that, now that he

Was really come, the people went nearly mad for joy.

Mere acquaintances hugged and kissed each other and cried. Everybody took

A holiday, and high and low, rich and poor, feasted and danced and sang, and

Got very mellow; and they kept this up for days and nights together. By day,

London was a sight to see, with gay banners waving from every balcony and

Housetop, and splendid pageants marching along.

By night, it was again a sight to see, with its great bonfires at every corner,

And its troops of revelers making merry around them.

There was no talk in all England but of the new baby, Edward Tudor, Prince

Of Wales, who lay lapped in silks and satins, unconscious of all this fuss, and

Not knowing that great lords and ladies were tending him and watching over

Him — and not caring, either.

But there was no talk about the other baby, Tom Canty, lapped in his poor

Rags, except among the family of paupers whom he had just come to trouble