Half-hours with the Poets
I.--MR. WORDSWORTH AND THE LITTLE COTTAGE GIRL.
"I met a little cottage girl,
She was eight years old she said,
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head."
WORDSWORTH.
This is what really happened.
Over the dreary downs of his native Cumberland the aged
laureate was wandering with bowed head and countenance
of sorrow.
Times were bad with the old man.
In the south pocket of his trousers, as he set his face
to the north, jingled but a few odd coins and a cheque
for St. Leon water. Apparently his cup of bitterness was
full.
In the distance a child moved--a child in form, yet the
deep lines upon her face bespoke a countenance prematurely
old.
The poet espied, pursued and overtook the infant. He
observed that apparently she drew her breath lightly and
felt her life in every limb, and that presumably her
acquaintance with death was of the most superficial
character.
"I must sit awhile and ponder on that child," murmured
the poet. So he knocked her down with his walking-stick
and seating himself upon her, he pondered.
Long he sat thus in thought. "His heart is heavy," sighed
the child.
At length he drew forth a note-book and pencil and prepared
to write upon his knee. "Now then, my dear young friend,"
he said, addressing the elfin creature, "I want those
lines upon your face. Are you seven?"
"Yes, we are seven," said the girl sadly, and added, "I
know what you want. You are going to question me about
my afflicted family. You are Mr. Wordsworth, and you are
collecting mortuary statistics for the Cottagers' Edition
of the Penny Encyclopaedia."
"You are eight years old?" asked the bard.
"I suppose so," answered she. "I have been eight years
old for years and years."
"And you know nothing of death, of course?" said the poet
cheerfully.
"How can I?" answered the child.
"Now then," resumed the venerable William, "let us get
to business. Name your brothers and sisters."
"Let me see," began the child wearily; "there was Rube
and Ike, two I can't think of, and John and Jane."
"You must not count John and Jane," interrupted the bard
reprovingly; "they're dead, you know, so that doesn't
make seven."
"I wasn't counting them, but perhaps I added up wrongly,"
said the child; "and will you please move your overshoe
off my neck?"
"Pardon," said the old man. "A nervous trick, I have been
absorbed; indeed, the exigency of the metre almost demands
my doubling up my feet. To continue, however; which died
first?"
"The first to go was little Jane," said the child.
"She lay moaning in bed, I presume?"
"In bed she moaning lay."
"What killed her?"
"Insomnia," answered the girl. "The gaiety of our cottage
life, previous to the departure of our elder brothers
for Conway, and the constant field-sports in which she
indulged with John, proved too much for a frame never
too robust."
"You express yourself well," said the poet. "Now, in
regard to your unfortunate brother, what was the effect
upon him in the following winter of the ground being
White with snow and your being able to run and slide?"
"My brother John was forced to go," answered she. "We
have been at a loss to understand the cause of his death.
We fear that the dazzling glare of the newly fallen snow,
acting upon a restless brain, may have led him to a fatal
attempt to emulate my own feats upon the ice. And, oh,
sir," the child went on, "speak gently of poor Jane. You
may rub it into John all you like; we always let him
slide."
"Very well," said the bard, "and allow me, in conclusion,
one rather delicate question: Do you ever take your little
porringer?"
"Oh, yes," answered the child frankly--
"'Quite often after sunset,
When all is light and fair,
I take my little porringer'--
"I can't quite remember what I do after that, but I know
that I like it."
"That is immaterial," said Wordsworth. "I can say that
you take your little porringer neat, or with bitters, or
in water after every meal. As long as I can state that
you take a little porringer regularly, but never to
excess, the public is satisfied. And now," rising from
his seat, "I will not detain you any longer. Here is
sixpence--or stay," he added hastily, "here is a cheque
for St. Leon water. Your information has been most
valuable, and I shall work it, for all I am Wordsworth."
With these words the aged poet bowed deferentially to
the child and sauntered off in the direction of the Duke
of Cumberland's Arms, with his eyes on the ground, as if
looking for the meanest flower that blows itself.
II:--HOW TENNYSON KILLED THE MAY QUEEN
"If you're waking call me early, call me early, mother
dear."
PART I
As soon as the child's malady had declared itself the
afflicted parents of the May Queen telegraphed to Tennyson,
"Our child gone crazy on subject of early rising, could
you come and write some poetry about her?"
Alfred, always prompt to fill orders in writing from the
country, came down on the evening train. The old cottager
greeted the poet warmly, and began at once to speak of
the state of his unfortunate daughter.
"She was took queer in May," he said, "along of a sort
of bee that the young folks had; she ain't been just
right since; happen you might do summat."
With these words he opened the door of an inner room.
The girl lay in feverish slumber. Beside her bed was an
alarm-clock set for half-past three. Connected with the
clock was an ingenious arrangement of a falling brick
with a string attached to the child's toe.
At the entrance of the visitor she started up in bed.
"Whoop," she yelled, "I am to be Queen of the May, mother,
ye-e!"
Then perceiving Tennyson in the doorway, "If that's a
caller," she said, "tell him to call me early."
The shock caused the brick to fall. In the subsequent
confusion Alfred modestly withdrew to the sitting-room.
"At this rate," he chuckled, "I shall not have long to
wait. A few weeks of that strain will finish her."
