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Literary Lapses
·
Stephen Leacock
137
"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.
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