longer, so that leaves me money to buy books. I shall feed on the
snails in the garden, making soup of them, for there is a beautiful
stove in the glass-house. When is your next half-holiday?"

"On Saturday."

"Very well. I am going away to buy books; but I shall be back by
Saturday, and then you are to come and learn Latin."

It may have been fear or curiosity, certainly it was no desire for
learning, that took me to Gardener Tonken's glass-house next Saturday
afternoon. The goose-driver was there to welcome me.

"Ah, wide-mouth," he cried; "I knew you would be here. Come and see
my library."

He showed me a pile of dusty, tattered volumes, arranged on an old
flower-stand.

"See," said he, "no sorrowful books, only Aristophanes and Lucian,
Horace, Rabelais, Moliere, Voltaire's novels, 'Gil Blas,'
'Don Quixote,' Fielding, a play or two of Shakespeare, a volume or so
of Swift, Prior's Poems, and Sterne--that divine Sterne! And a Latin
Grammar and Virgil for you, little boy. First, eat some snails."

But this I would not. So he pulled out two three-legged stools, and
very soon I was trying to fix my wandering wits and decline _mensa_.


After this I came on every half-holiday for nearly a year. Of course