Children, if you have read this far, take heed. Lars Talc could not have known that he carried in his pocket, embedded in his prize horn, a lightning conductor of superb efficiency. But you will be on your guard.
You will not forget to ask papa to place an egg laid on Ascension Day, and a houseleek plant, in the rafters of your dwelling.
You will not fret and dally at the onset of a thunderstorm, neglecting to throw open all the doors and windows, to turn pictures to face the wall, and to cover your mirrors with heavy blankets.
You will not forget to wear a wreath of laurel, and a necklace of coral.
You will never put your shiny new boots upon the table.
You will not attempt to count the twinkling stars, nor point with your finger towards that part of the heavens whence lightning is expected.
You will not forget to gather bundles of hazel and willow twigs and stand them in pots of water.
If you pick a poppy, you will not let a petal fall from it on to your hand.
When mama tells you to gather up the knives and forks and spoons and scissors and scythes and tweezers and pincers and pins and needles and all other implements of steel, and put them away in the cupboard, you will not disobey her.
You will not hang back when your pals go scampering to the churches to set tolling great clamours of bells.
You will not stand near towering pines, nor up to your ankles in a basin of water, nor by any leaden spout, iron gate, railings, bandstand, palisade, or spigot in times of lightning.