And out of this latter volume I would often declaim for her benefit what has always been to me the most beautiful poem in the world, possibly because it was the first I read for myself, or else because it is so intimately associated with those happy days. Under an engraving of a wild duck (after Bewick, I believe) were quoted W.C. Bryant's lines "To a Water-fowl." They charmed me then and charm me now as nothing else has quite charmed me; I become a child again as I think of them, with a child's virgin subtlety of perception and magical susceptibility to vague suggestions of the Infinite. Poor little Mimsey Seraskier would listen with distended eyes and quick comprehension. She had a strange fancy that a pair of invisible beings, "La fee Tarapatapoum," and "Le Prince Charmant" (two favorite characters of M. le Major's) were always in attendance upon us--upon her and me--and were equally fond of us both; that is, "La fee Tarapatapoum" of me, and "Le Prince Charmant" of her--and watched over us and would protect us through life. "O! ils sont joliment bien ensemble, tous les deux--ils sont inseparables!" she would often exclaim, _apropos_ of these visionary beings; and _apropos_ of the water-fowl she would say-- "Il aime beaucoup cet oiseau-la, le Prince Charmant! dis encore, quand il vole si haut, et qu'il fait froid, et qu'il est fatigue, et que la nuit vient, mais qu'il ne veut pas descendre!" And I would re-spout-- _"'All day thy wings have fanned, At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, Though the dark night be near!'"_ And poor, morbid, precocious, overwrought Mimsey's eyes would fill, and she would meditatively suck her thumb and think unutterable things. And then I would copy Bewick's wood-cuts for her, as she sat on the arm of my chair and patiently watched; and she would say: "La fee Tarapatapoum trouve que tu dessines dans la perfection!" and treasure up these little masterpieces--"pour l'album de la fee Tarapatapoum!" [Illustration] There was one drawing she prized above all others--a steel engraving in a volume of Byron, which represented two beautiful beings of either sex, walking hand in hand through a dark cavern. The man was in sailor's garb; the lady, who went barefoot and lightly clad, held a torch; and underneath was written-- _"And Neuha led her Torquil by the hand, And waved along the vaults her flaming brand."_ I spent hours in copying it for her, and she preferred the copy to the original, and would have it that the two figures were excellent portraits of her Prince and Fairy. Sometimes during these readings and sketchings under the apple-tree on the lawn, the sleeping Medor (a huge nondescript sort of dog, built up of every breed in France, with the virtues of all and the vices of none) would wag his three inches of tail, and utter soft whimperings of welcome in his dream; and she would say--