Literary Lapses

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."