ONE April morning nearly three hundred and fifty years ago there was a stir and bustle in a goodly house in the little country town of Stratford-on-Avon.  The neighbors went in and out with nods and smiles and mysterious whisperings.  Then there was a sound of clinking of glasses and of laughter, for it became known that to John and Mary Shakespeare a son had been born, and presently there was brought to be shown to the company “The infant mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms.”  It was a great event for the father and mother, something of an event for Stratford-on-Avon, for John Shakespeare was a man of importance.  He was a well-to-do merchant, an alderman of the little town.  He seems to have done business in several ways, for we are told that he was a glover, a butcher, and a corn and wool dealer.  No doubt he grew his own corn, and reared and killed his own sheep, making gloves from the skins, and selling the wool and flesh.  His wife, too, came of a good yeoman family who farmed their own land, and no doubt John Shakespeare did business with his kinsfolk in both corn and sheep.  And although he could perhaps not read, and could not write even his own name, he was a lucky business man and prosperous.  So he was well considered by his neighbors and had a comfortable house in Henley Street, built of rough plastered stone and dark strong wood work.

And now this April morning John Shakespeare’s heart was glad.  Already he had had two children, two little girls, but they had both died.  Now he had a son who would surely live to grow strong and great, to be a comfort in his old age and carry on his business when he could no longer work.  It was a great day for John Shakespeare.  How little he knew that it was a great day for all the world and for all time.

Three days after he was born the tiny baby was christened.  And the name his father and mother gave him was William.  After this three months passed happily.  Then one of the fearful plagues which used to sweep over the land, when people lived in dark and dirty houses in dark and dirty streets, attacked Stratford-on-Avon.  Jolly John Shakespeare and Mary, his wife, must have been anxious of heart, fearful lest the plague should visit their home.  John did what he could to stay it.  He helped the stricken people with money and goods, and presently the plague passed away, and the life of the dearly loved little son was safe.

Years passed on, and the house in Henley Street grew ever more noisy with chattering tongues and pattering feet, until little Will had two sisters and two brothers to keep him company.

Then, although his father and mother could neither of them write themselves, they decided that their children should be taught, so William was sent to the Grammar School.  He was, I think, fonder of the blue sky and the slow-flowing river and the deep dark woods that grew about his home that of the low-roofed schoolroom.  He went perhaps