On a damp and dismal July evening, when you feel the world will surely end. Comes the marching band, practicing.

Tall and short bedraggled figures search a marshy paddy endlessly for inspiration. Ranks separate is if to avoid the noise, and the Red Arrow routine begins.

Soft melody or brisk march is equally executed by this riotous locomotive. Cymbals clash echoing thunder and brassy trumpets herald the entrance of the tuba, and its compatriot the base drum.

Know one argues with the drum.

As music is rewritten, then corrected by the master, so the assembly becomes one, and a tingle straightens flagging backs, and all heads rise for the occasion.

The whimpering of the lyre shape xylophone can just be heard unlike the flamboyant bugles, but know one complains on this belligerent battle ground they call the playing field.