As Easter approaches, bleak news on the candy front. Cadbury’s, the staid old British firm that produces such splendid cream eggs, has itself been gobbled up by the American giant, Kraft.

The Cadbury’s name will remain on the cream eggs; but in the future, be careful. Some may be stuffed with Velveeta. In face of the takeover, and as a comfort to you and to me, I’m offering you your Easter basket a week early. Its contents are two final stories from our recent England trip.

The events occurred within minutes of one another; but there’s some other, more elemental link between them that I sense but just can’t pinpoint. Maybe you can.

Our first English week was in Chichester, that dear old cathedral town not too far from Portsmouth. Early one morning, I rode the bus into the town center, intending a quiet day of enjoying a place that, again, I never expected to see again. On arrival, I opened my day of celebration at a small restaurant down a narrow, cobbled side street.

Wickedly, I ordered a classic ``cooked breakfast,’’ a lovely spread of comfort foods and, I suspect, a real maelstrom of cholesterol. Not something youÆd want very often, it features a couple of fried eggs, British bacon, baked beans, a grilled tomato, and, if it’s the real thing, a link of black pudding. The last is hog’s blood, simmered till it darkens and thickens. It’s then made into a link sausage. I’d call it an acquired taste, like the Scots’ haggis or the Norwegians’ lutefisk. No black pudding for me that day; I have some self-control.

The first of my two events occurred as I walked toward the 11th-century Chichester Cathedral, ambling along a slate sidewalk between cathedral and West Street. To my left and down a slight slope, a wide spread of lush grass stretched to the building’s side wall. To my right, alongside the street, a bus shelter held a cue of patient, waiting Brits. An overcast day, and comfortably brisk. So much for scene-setting.

From the bus shelter, a lad of about four escaped his mother and galloped down the slope onto the greensward. It was a cold enough that Mum had him sealed up in a hooded snowsuit. Well, you know I’m a sucker for kids; I stopped to watch his progress.

The lad picked up a fallen twig about the length of his arm, and was at once deep into some man-against-monster fantasy. He brandished the stick above his head and, considering his very small lungs and voice box, produced a creditable battle cry.

``ARRRGH!’’ he roared and charged an invisible, much larger foe. To my delight he vanquished it, ending with a foot clamped on its chest and a flourish of the stick. Then he turned toward further adventures_ and spotted an ancient and half-sunken tombstone, rising out of the grass only to about half his height.

Again came his ``ARRRGH!’’ as he charged this new monster, one dragging itself out of the earth. ``Uh, oh,’’ I thought. ``He’s going to try to leap that stone.’’ I saw at once that the snowsuit legs were too baggy to allow it, but leap he did. He was partly successful.

The lad pivoted over the small stone and ended hung up on it, head on the ground, legs waving behind. No roar now; just a little boy’s panicked cry. He struggled and freed himself to fall sideways onto the grass. I thought sure he was going to cry. But then he saw some old man watching him from the sidewalk.

This warrior wanted no sympathy. He picked himself up, found his stick, and brandished it at me. ``ARRRGH!’’ he roared, and galloped off to attack the cathedral wall. Oh, thanks, lad! What a show! Then, in minutes, the second event. I walked on and rounded the base of the bell tower. Between it and the cathedral main entry was a statue I don’t remember seeing before. On a tall granite plinth and made of burnished steel, it represented St. Richard of Chichester, a 12th-century bishop of that very cathedral. A holy and compassionate man, Richard took special care of the poor.

He was much loved, and was canonized not long after he died. A short prayer that he wrote was carved into the statue’s stone base. As I stood reading it, I realized it was memorizing the prayer. It was entering my heart.

The prayer’s first short paragraph was thanks for all of one’s life’s blessings and for Christ’s bearing pain and insult for humankind’s sake.

Then the prayer eased away from formality, addressing Christ directly as savior; then friend, then, movingly, as brother. And there followed lines that seemed to leap forward to the 1970’s, then back to St. Richard’s time:

``Let me see you more clearly, love you more dearly, follow you more nearly, day by day.’’

Yes. The writers of ``Godspell’’ had pirated Richard’s prayer, though I’m sure the old bishop didn’t mind. (And of course, no copyrighting back then.) But if you’re about my age, you’ll remember those gentle words and the lilting melody that accompanied it. ``Day by day, day by day, these three things, O Lord, we pray:’’ Then, in three phrases, the whole Christian pilgrimage is summarized.

Now, how do those two events outside the cathedral, that little boy warrior, so vulnerable but so full of zest; and the twelfth-century bishop and his eloquent prayer_why are they bonded in my spirit? Beats me, friends. And so I’ll just leave them in your Easter basket. Let me know if you figure them out. Meanwhile, Easter blessings on you, day by day!

READ ABOUT Jim Atwell’s book, From Fly Creek--Celebrating Life in Leatherstocking Country, at JimAtwell. com.