Just before quitting the 'Blue Bell,' at the end of his twelve months' service, another important event took place in the life of John Clare. One morning, while tending his master's cattle in the field, a farmer's big boy, with whom he had but a slight acquaintance, showed him a copy of Thomson's 'Seasons.' Examining the book, he got excited beyond measure. It was the first real poem he had ever seen, and in harmony as it was with all his feelings, it made upon him the most powerful and lasting impression. Looking upon the book as a priceless treasure, he expressed his admiration in warm words, asking, nay, imploring the possessor to lend it him, if only for an hour. But the loutish boy, swollen with pride, absolutely refused to do so; it was but a trumpery book, he said, and could be bought for eighteen-pence, and he did not see why people who wanted it should not buy it. The words sunk deep into John Clare's heart; 'Only eighteen-pence?' he inquired again and again, doubting his own ears. The big boy was quite sure the book cost no more than eighteen-pence; he had himself bought it at Stamford for the money, and could give the name and address of the bookseller. It was information eagerly accepted by John, who determined on the spot to get the coveted poem at the earliest opportunity. His wages not being due at the moment, he hurried home to his father in the evening, entreating the loan of a shilling, as he himself possessed but sixpence. But Parker Clare, willing though he was to gratify his son, was unable to render help on this occasion. A spare shilling was not often seen in the hut of the poor old man, dependent chiefly upon alms, and in want, not unfrequently, of the bare necessaries of life. But the loving mother could not listen to her son's anxious entreaty without trying to assist him, and by dint of superhuman exertions she managed to get him sevenpence. The fraction still wanting to complete the purchase-money of the book was raised by sundry loans at the 'Blue Bell,' and John waited with eagerness for the coming Sunday, when he would have time to run to Stamford. The Sunday came—a Sunday in spring; and he was up soon after midnight, and stood before the bookseller's shop in Stamford when the eastern clouds assumed their first purple hue. John Clare patiently waited one hour, two hours, three hours, yet the treasure store which contained Thomson's 'Seasons' remained closed. Tremblingly he asked a boy who came along the street at what time the shop would be opened: 'It will not be open at all to-day, for it is Sunday, rejoined the other. Then John went home in bitter sorrow to Helpston, not knowing how to get the much-coveted book. On the way, a bright thought struck him. If he could but raise twopence, in addition to the capital already acquired, he thought he could manage the matter. So by making extraordinary efforts, he got his twopence, and then held a long conversation with the cowherd of a neighbouring farmer. Clare's occupation on the following morning was to take his master's horses to the pasture, and he offered the cowherd the sum of one penny to look after the horses for him, and one more penny for 'keeping the secret.' The bargain was struck, after an animated discussion, in which the conscientious cowherd strove hard to get a total reward of threepence, so as to be able to keep the secret for any length of time. But John was inflexible, for strong reasons of his own, and thus gained the victory.

During the night from Sunday to Monday, John Clare could not shut his eyes for sheer anxiety. The questions whether the bookseller would have any copies left of the wonderful poem; whether it could really be bought for eighteen-pence; and whether the big farmer's boy did not mean the whole story as a hoax, occupied his mind all night long. It seemed so improbable to him, on reflection, that a book containing the most exquisite verses could be bought for little more than the common fairy tales of the hawkers, and it seemed still more improbable that, being sold so cheap, there would be any books left for sale, that he at last inwardly despaired of getting the book. Thereupon he had a good long cry in the silence of the night, when all the village was asleep; and the crying closed his eyelids, too, for sheer weariness. And when he roused himself again there was a faint glow in the sky; so he rushed down to the stables, took out his horses, and led them to the pasture, awaiting the arrival of his confederate. The latter came at length, and, having given over his horses, John set off in a sharp trot, skipping over the seven or eight miles to Stamford in little more than an hour. The bookseller's shop, alas, was still closed; but the people in the streets told the eager inquirer that the shutters would be taken down in about an hour and a half. John, therefore, sat down in quiet resignation on the door-step, counting the quarters of the chiming clock. At last there was a noise inside the house, a rattling of keys and drawing of bolts. The bookseller slowly opened his door, and was immensely astonished to see a little country lad, thin and haggard, with wild gleaming eyes, rush at him with a demand for Thomson's 'Seasons.' Was there ever such a customer seen at Stamford? The good bookseller was not accustomed to excitement, for the old ladies who dealt at his shop bought their hymn-books and manuals of devotion without any manifestations of impatience, and even the young ones, though they asked for Aphra Behn's novels in a whisper, came in very quietly and demurely. Who, then, was this queer, haggard-looking country boy, who could not wait for Thomson's 'Seasons' till after breakfast, but was hovering about the shop like a thief? The good bookseller questioned him a little, but did not gain much satisfactory information. That his little customer was servant at the 'Blue Bell;' had hired himself to Master Gregory for a year; had a father and mother maintained by the parish; and had seen Thomson's 'Seasons' in the hands of a farmer's boy—that was all the inquisitive bookseller could get at; and, indeed, there was nothing more to tell. However, the Stamford shopkeeper was a man of compassion, and seeing the wan little figure before him, resolved upon a tremendous sacrifice. So he told Clare that he would let him have Thomson's 'Seasons' for one shilling: 'You may keep the sixpence, my boy,' he exclaimed, with a lofty wave of the hand. John Clare heard nothing, saw nothing; he snatched up his book, and ran away eastward as fast as his legs would carry him. 'A queer customer,' said the shopkeeper, finishing to take down his shutters.

The sun had risen in all his glory when John Clare was trotting back from Stamford to Helpston. Every now and then he paused to have a peep in his book. This went on for a mile or two, after which he could contain himself no longer. He was just passing along the wall of the splendid park surrounding Burghley Hall, the trees of which, filled with melodious singers, overhung the road. The village of Barnack in front looked dull and dreary; but the park at the side was sweet and inviting. With one jump, John was over the wall, nestling, like a bird, among some thick shrubs in the hedge. And then and there he read through Thomson's 'Seasons'—read the book through twice over, from beginning to end. And the larks and linnets kept singing more and more beautifully; and the golden sun rose higher and higher on the horizon, illuminating the landscape with a flood of light, a thousandfold reflected in the green trees and the blue waters of the lake. John Clare thought he had never before seen the world so exquisitely beautiful; he thought he had never before felt so thoroughly happy in all his life. He did not know how to give vent to his happiness; singing would not do it, nor even crying. But he had a pencil in his pocket and a bit of crumpled paper, and, unconscious almost of what he was doing, with a sort of instinctive movement, he began to write—began to write poetry. The verses thus composed were subsequently printed, but with great alterations, under the title, 'The Morning Walk.' What Clare actually wrote on his crumpled bit of paper was, probably, very imperfect in form, and not fit to be seen till thrice distilled in the crucible of his future 'able editor.'

John Clare felt intensely joyful when returning to Helpston from his long morning walk. He did not mind being taken to task by his indulgent employer for having, for the first time, neglected his duty; did not mind the reproaches of his fellow-servant as to his having broken his compact. The cowherd justly argued that, after the solemn agreement to look after the horses for three hours on payment of one penny, and to keep the secret for another penny, it was unfair to burthen him with the responsibility of the guardianship, as well as the secret, for more than half a day. Seeing the justice of the claim, John Clare, in the fulness of his heart, gave his brother cowherd the sixpence, which the kind bookseller at Stamford had presented him with. However, though generously paid, the cowherding youth was unable to keep the terrible secret for more than a day. The next morning he told his sweetheart, in strict confidence, that Clare had got into an immense fortune, and was running up and down to Stamford to buy books and 'all sorts of things.' Before it was evening, the whole village knew the story, and a hundred fingers were pointed at Clare while he walked down the street. He was greatly blamed on all sides: blamed, in the first instance, for allowing himself to be drawn away by the sprites and their nameless chief, and, as was supposed, accepting gold and silver from them; and blamed still more for not sharing his fortune with his poor parents. There were those who had seen him, on the brink of the mere, holding converse with the Evil One; they had actually witnessed the passing of the glittering coin, 'which fell into his hands like rain drops.' Clare's poor old father and mother did not believe these stories; yet even they shuddered when their son entered the little hut. It was clear John could not remain long at Helpston. There was danger in being a poet on the borders of the fen regions.