In this church is the font where Shakespeare wuz baptized—this wuz in the church at the time of his birth, but wuz took out in the seventeenth century, and replaced by a new one; this old one lay for years in a heap of rubbish, and wuz used for a pump trough for a spell—jest think on’t!
The font in which Shakespeare was baptized.
There is other interestin’ things in the church, but we didn’t wait to see ’em. We went out and wandered for a spell around the quaint streets of Stratford. Every shop almost has souvneirs to sell of the great man—busts and medallions and picters of him and his home, and his tomb, and carvin’s, engravin’s, etc., etc. I would buy a plate with his birthplace on’t, though Josiah demurred.
Sez he, “I always thought you wuz so peticular, Samantha, what you eat on, and the idee of eatin’ on Shakespeare—cow-slop greens, for instance, or pork and beans.”
I sez, “It hain’t Shakespeare’s face.”
“Wall, eatin’ cabbage and onions on a meetin’-house.”
“It is his house,” sez I.
“Wall,” sez he, “custard and Shakespeare’s birthplace.”
“Wall,” sez I, “what of it—what of custard and Shakespeare?” My tone wuz cold—cold as ice, and it danted him, and he sez—“Oh, wall, if you can reconcile ’em, and bring ’em together, buy it.”