For the next five years nothing is known about Will Shakspere. Then we find him courting Anne Hathaway in the pretty old brick and timbered cottage at Shottery, its garden all full of roses and rosemary, "carnations and striped gillyvors." A year or two later, he is stealing one of Sir Thomas Lucy's deer,--writing a lampoon on the worthy justice,--and flying to London from his wrath, to hold horses at the door of the Globe Theater before he joined the Lord Chamberlain's players, and became known to all posterity as Mr. William Shakspere, Writer of Plays. May Song By Laura E. Richards [Illustration] Is there anything new to sing about you, May, my dear? Any unhackneyed thing about you, Pray, my dear? Anything that has not been sung Long ago when the world was young, By silver throat and golden tongue? Say, my dear! So many have said that your eyes are blue, May, my dear, It must be a tiresome fact, though true, May, my dear, And if I for one, my gracious Queen, Should boldly assert that your eyes were green, 'Twould be a relief to you, I ween, Eh, my dear? We know of the touch of your garments fold, May, my dear, The daisies come starring with white and gold The way, my dear. We know that the painted blossoms all Come starting up at your gentle call, By dale and meadow and garden-wall, May, my dear. We know that your birds have the sweetest tune, May, my dear: And lovers love best beneath your moon, They say, my dear. And I might add that that your perfumed kiss Is considered productive of highest bliss; But you must be so tired of hearing this! Eh, my dear? No, I really don't think there's anything fresh, Or new, my dear. For the world is small, and available rhymes Are few, my dear. So if I say naught about vernal bowers, And forbear to mention the sunlit showers, I think I shall make the best use of my powers. Dont you, my dear? And yet I cannot help loving you so, May, my dear, That the old words, whether I will or no, I say, my dear, And how you are fair, and how you are sweet My loving lips forever repeat.-- And is that the reason you pass so fleet? Ah! stay, my dear! THE GIRLS' TRICYCLE CLUB AND ITS RUN DOWN THE CAPE. BY E. VINTON BLAKE.