corner. "Wully Shaxper a great man?" said he. "Why, a's name be cut on
the old beech-tree up Snitterfield lane, where's uncle Henry Shaxper
lives, an' 'tis but poorly done. I could do better wi' my own whittle."

"Ay, Hodge," cried Nick; "and that's about all thou canst do. Dost think
that a man's greatness hangs on so little a thing as his sleight of hand
at cutting his name on a tree?"

"Wull, maybe; maybe not; but if a be a great man, Nick Attwood, a might
do a little thing passing well--so there, now!"

Nick pondered for a moment. "I do na know," said he, slowly; "heaps of
men can do the little things, but parlous few the big. So some one must
be bigging it, or folks would all sing very small. And he doeth the big
most beautiful, they say. They call him the Swan of Avon."

"Avon swans be mostly geese," said Hodge, vacantly.

"Now, look 'e here, Hodge Dawson, don't thou be calling Master Will
Shakspere goose. He married my own mother's cousin, and I will na
have it."

"La, now," drawled Hodge, staring, "'tis nowt to me. Thy Muster Wully
Shaxper may be all the long-necked fowls in Warrickshire for all I care.
And, anyway, I'd like to know, Nick Attwood, since when hath a been
'_Muster_ Shaxper'--that ne'er-do-well, play-actoring fellow?"

"Ne'er-do-well? It is na so. When he was here last summer he was bravely
dressed, and had a heap of good gold nobles in his purse. And he gave
Rick Hawkins, that's blind of an eye, a shilling for only holding