the beautiful young lady on horseback, and the music, and the ride over
to Banbury, and everything you can think about. Come now, that's a good
boy; go and do that for your mother."

The deceived youth stared in amazement at the request. Such a thing had
never been heard before under that humble roof-tree. His own mother
actually telling him to write some poetry. Incredible! Instead of
laughing, and snubbing him as she usually did, positively telling him to
do the very thing she had so often forbidden,--the very thing he had
always been obliged to do under so many discouragements. The thought
took away his breath. That his talent was at length recognized by his
family was a matter of rejoicing, and springing up with a cheerful cry,
"I'll do it," he bounded up the back-kitchen stairs, and was soon lost
to sight amid the cobwebs of time.

The provident old lady, with a knowing look and sagacious shake of the
head, said, "He's safe for awhile, thank Heaven; now let us have peace."

Let us follow the poet up-stairs and peep into that attic chamber. The
sanctum sanctorum of the writer. The visiting-place of the Muses. The
stable of Pegasus. There, in one corner, is a little cot bed, with a
single pillow, showing at once a privileged member of the family; near
its head an ancient wash-stand and a tin wash-basin, and by its side a
pail of water, with a tin dipper reposing quietly on its surface.
Nothing unnecessary, everything useful. By the window stands a square
pine table, spotted and streaked with ink, to match the floor, which
resembles in a homely way MARK TWAIN'S map of Paris on an enlarged
scale. Before that table, his head resting on his hands, his eyes
glaring on the paper, sits the immortal Bard whose lightest words were
to be remembered long after his name was forgotten.