The real story of St. George and the dragon is not exactly how you’ve heard it. Long ago—might have been hundreds of years ago—in a cottage half-way between this village and yonder shoulder of the Downs up there, a shepherd lived with his wife and their little son. And up high in the Downs appears one night a dragon. Big as four cart-horses and covered with shiny, deep-blue scales. Thankfully he is not like those other fellows, so active and earnest—always rampaging, and skirmishing, and scouring the desert sands, and chasing knights all over the place, and devouring damsels, and going on generally. This dragon is a well-mannered, erudite sort who loves a good dinner party and making up poetry—verses, you know?
But even the most modest and retiring dragon in the world cannot keep altogether out of the public view, and he’s bored to death anyway and wants to go into Society. When the villagers meet him they are frightened, but rather proud as well—it is a great distinction to have a dragon of your own. Still, all are agreed that this sort of thing can’t be allowed to go on. When grave, gentle St. George appears to free them from their foe, the village gears up for a jolly fight. Better get it over with, so everyone can go on with the sonnets and dinner parties.