"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."

PART II

Six months had passed.

It was now mid-winter.

And still the girl lived. Her vitality appeared
inexhaustible.

She got up earlier and earlier. She now rose yesterday
afternoon.

At intervals she seemed almost sane, and spoke in a most