In the ancient city of London, on a certain autumn day in the second quarter of thesixteenth century, a boy was born to a poor family of the name of Canty, who did not wanthim.

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 hopedfor him, and prayed God for him, that, now that he was really come, the people went nearlymad for joy.

Mere acquaintances hugged and kissed each other and cried.

Everybody took aholiday, and high and low, rich and poor, feasted and danced and sang, and got verymellow; and they kept this up for days and nights together.

By day, London was a sight tosee, with gay banners waving from every balcony and housetop, and splendid pageantsmarching along.

By night, it was again a sight to see, with its great bonfires at every corner,and its troops of revellers making merry around them.

There was no talk in all England butof 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 himand 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 justcome to trouble with his presence.