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.

The first in order of events in the journey to the Market Town.  The arrangements have all been made.  He and TOM are to ride the horse, while his mother and DICK ride the mare.  There is no use telling the world all the particulars, so he simply writes:—­

    “Ride a cock horse to Banbury Cross.”

He doesn’t care to mention that two intend to ride the cock horse.  If the world chooses to think only one rides him, let them think so.  He will write ambiguously if he wants to; there is no law to prevent him from doing so.

“Now what is to be seen after getting there?  His mother said a beautiful lady on horseback, and splendid music.  But that cannot be.  What! a beautiful young lady ride in public on horseback?  She wouldn’t do such a thing.  He knows too much for that.  It must be some old woman; and he writes accordingly:—­

    “To see an old woman ride on a white horse.”

She is to be gayly dressed, he has heard, and loaded with diamond rings; but how about the music?  Probably she has bells on her toes; at least he will put it so, and then adds;—­

    “Rings on her fingers and bells on her toes.”

He thinks awhile longer.  He sees in imagination the venerable old dame riding around on the white horse, gayly dressed and bespangled, the rings glistening, the bells ringing, and his sensitive soul fancies it hears the wonderful music, and he knows that ever and ever, so long as she rides,