ng--at any rate, as the Colonel
quoted it--undoubtedly a trifle free. Then the Colonel
took to annotating his book at the side with such remarks
as, "Enter Saloonio," or "A tucket sounds; enter Saloonio,
on the arm of the Prince of Morocco." When there was no
reasonable excuse for bringing Saloonio on the stage the
Colonel swore that he was concealed behind the arras, or
feasting within with the doge.

But he got satisfaction at last. He had found that there
was nobody in our part of the country who knew how to
put a play of Shakespeare on the stage, and took a trip
to New York to see Sir Henry Irving and Miss Terry do
the play. The Colonel sat and listened all through with
his face just beaming with satisfaction, and when the
curtain fell at the close of Irving's grand presentation
of the play, he stood up in his seat, and cheered and
yelled to his friends: "That's it! That's him! Didn't
you see that man that came on the stage all the time and
sort of put the whole play through, though you couldn't
understand a word he said? Well, that's him! That's
Saloonio!"

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
lin