"I wonder what sort of a table this is," said he. "It keeps its own secrets. I never had a chance to look at it."
Some little reply was made by Mrs. Wordsworth, when, turning to me, he asked, "Is it not a natural curiosity in me to wish to look upon this table, once in my life? I am determined to see it now."
With some difficulty, he disengaged the adhesive envelope, and spreading out his thin hands upon the board, exclaimed, with satisfaction,—
"There! I've got a sight of it at last. It is a mahogany table, and a very good one too."
This playfulness, set off by the solemnity of his manner, seemed to delight his household, and was possibly an episode of rare occurrence. The ripening of this personal acquaintance into epistolary intercourse and friendship, was truly gratifying to me, as was also his benignant approval of the annexed simple greeting, on the first recurrence of his birthday, after my return home.
High-thoughted Bard of Rydal's sounding tide,
Whose stricken lyre, across the ocean blue,
Doth stir our forests in their unshorn pride,
And sweetly steal the woodman's cabin through,
Thy day of birth, here, on Columbia's shore,
The sons of song in faithful memory keep;
White-pinioned sea-birds brought the record o'er
The tossing billows of the boisterous deep,—
