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
"A whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school."
But we do not know. And whether he liked school or not, at least
we know that later, when he came to write plays, he
 made fun of schoolmasters. He knew "little Latin and less Greek,"
friend in after life, but then that friend was very learned and
might think "little" that which we might take for "a good deal."
Indeed, another old writer says "he understood Latin pretty
We know little either of Shakespeare's school hours or play
hours, but once or twice at least he may have seen a play or
pageant. His father went on prospering and was made chief
bailiff of the town, and while in that office he entertained
twice at least troups of strolling players, the Queen's Company
and the Earl of Worcester's Company. It is very likely that
little Will was taken to see the plays they acted. Then when he
was eleven years old there was great excitement in the country
town, for Queen Elizabeth came to visit the great Earl of
Leicester at his castle of Kenilworth, not sixteen miles away.
There were great doings then, and the Queen was received with all
the magnificence and pomp that money could procure and
imagination invent. Some of these grand shows Shakespeare must
Long afterwards he remembered perhaps how one evening he had
stood among the crowd tiptoeing and eager to catch a glimpse of
the great Queen as she sat enthroned on a golden chair. Her red-
gold hair gleamed and glittered with jewels under the flickering
torchlight. Around her stood a crowd of nobles and ladies only
less brilliant that she. Then, as William gazed and gazed, his
eyes aching with the dazzling lights, there was a movement in the
surging crowd, a murmur of "ohs" and "ahs." And, turning, the
boy saw another lady, another Queen, appear from out the dark
shadow of the trees. Stately and slowly she moved across the
grass. Then following her came a winged boy with golden bow and
arrows. This was the God of Love, who roamed the world shooting
 love arrows at the hearts of men and women, making them love
each other. He aimed, he shot, the arrow flew, but the god
missed his aim and the lady passed on, beautiful, cold, free, as
before. Love could not touch her, he followed her but in vain.
It was with such pageants, such allegories, that her people
flattered Queen Elizabeth, for many men laid their hearts at her
feet, but she in return never gave her own. She was the woman
above all others to be loved, to be worshiped, but herself
remained in "maiden meditation fancy-free." The memory of those
brilliant days stayed with the poet-child. They were sun-gilt,
as childish memories are, and in after years he wrote:
"That very time I saw (but thou couldst not)
Flying between the cold moon and the earth,
Cupid all arm'd. A certain aim he took
At a fair vestal, throned by the West,
And loos'd his love-shaft smartly from his bow,
As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts;
But I might see young cupid's fiery shaft
Quench'd in the chaste beams of the watery moon,
And the imperial votaress passed on,
In maiden meditation, fancy-free.
Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell:
It fell upon a little western flower;
Before, milk-white; now, purple with love's wound,
And maidens call it love-in-idleness."
Some time after John Shakespeare became chief bailiff his
fortunes turned. From being rich he became poor. Bit by bit he
was obliged to sell his own and his wife's property. So little
Will was taken away from school at the age of thirteen, and set
to earn his own living as a butcher—his father's trade, we are
told. But if he ever was a butcher he was, nevertheless, an
actor and a poet, "and when he killed a calf he would do it in a
 style and make a speech." How Shakespeare fared in this
new work we do not know, but we may fancy him when work was done
wandering along the pretty country lanes or losing himself in the
forest of Arden, which lay not far from his home, "the poet's eye
in a fine frenzy rolling," and singing to himself:
"Jog on, jog on, the footpath way,
And merrily hent the stile-a;
A merry heart goes all the day,
Your sad tires in a mile-a."
He knew the lore of fields and woods, of trees and flowers, and
birds and beasts. He sang of
"The ousel-cock so black of hue,
With orange-tawny bill,
The throstle with his note so true,
The wren with little quill.
The finch, the sparrow, and the lark,
The plain-song cuckoo gray,
Whose note full many a man doth mark,
And dares not answer nay."
He remembered, perhaps, in after years his rambles by the slow-
flowing Avon, when he wrote:
"He makes sweet music with th' enamell'd stones,
Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge
He overtaketh in his pilgrimage;
And so by many winding nooks he strays,
With willing sport, to the wide ocean."
He knew the times of the flowers. In spring he marked
That come before the swallow dares, and take
The winds of March with beauty."
 Of summer flowers he tells us
"Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram;
The marigold, that goes to bed wi' the sun,
And with him rises weeping; these are flowers
Of middle summer."
He knew that "a lapwing runs close by the ground," that choughs
are "russet-pated." He knew all the beauty that is to be found
throughout the country year.
Sometimes in his country wanderings Shakespeare got into mischief
too. He had a daring spirit, and on quiet dark nights he could
creep silently about the woods snaring rabbits or hunting deer.
But we are told "he was given to all unluckiness in stealing
venison and rabbits."
He was often caught, sometimes got a good
beating, and sometimes was sent to prison.
So the years passed on, and we know little of what happened in
them. Some people like to think that Shakespeare was a
schoolmaster for a time, others that he was a clerk in a lawyer's
office. He may have been one or other, but we do not know. What
we do know is that when he was eighteen he took a great step. He
married. We can imagine him making love-songs then. Perhaps he
"O mistress mine, where are you roaming?
O, stay and hear; your true-love's coming,
That can sing both high and low:
Trip no further, pretty sweeting;
Journeys end in lovers' meeting;
Every wise man's son doth know.
What is love? 'tis not hereafter;
Present mirth hath present laughter;
What's to come is still unsure:
In delay there lies no plenty;
Then come kiss me, sweet-and-twenty,
Youth's a stuff will not endure."
 The lady whom Shakespeare married was named Anne Hathaway. She
came of farmer folk like Shakespeare's own mother. She was eight
years older than her boyish lover, but beyond that we know little
of Anne Hathaway, for Shakespeare never anywhere mentions his
A little while after their marriage a daughter was born to Anne
and William Shakespeare. Nearly two years later a little boy and
girl came to them. The boy died when he was about eleven, and
only the two little girls, Judith and Susanna, lived to grow up.
In spite of the fact that Shakespeare had now a wife and children
to look after, he had not settled down. He was still wild, and
being caught once more in stealing game he left Stratford and
went to London.