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150
Literary Lapses
·
Stephen Leacock
135
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."
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