fro upon the page. However, I sat down near by and watched him, fearing some new difficulty. He read with much interest, and seemed to enjoy it thoroughly, except when he came to the turning of a page. That was a nuisance indeed, as he had to turn up one edge, crawl over it, and then lift the page over.
"Have n't you a smaller edition of this fellow's writings?" he asked, somewhat exhausted by his efforts. "This is like reading sign-boards!"
"HE WAS CAUGHT BENEATH THE COVER OF THE BOOK."
"No," I replied shortly, "but if it tires you, you can read something else."
"But," said he, with some enthusiasm, "this is really quite good. It's equal to some of Wacoth's earlier and cruder work! It shows a talent that would well repay cultivation!"
"Yes, it is very fair," I replied, quietly; "Shakspere certainly has produced some creditable plays—at least, we think so."
"I should like to have known him," went on my undisturbed
