30 WINTER SUNSHINE 



moved. The memory of man ran not to the time 

 when there was not a footpath there, and every 

 pedestrian should have the right of way there still. 



I remember the pleasure I had in the path that 

 connects Stratford-on-Avon with Shottery, Shake 

 speare's path when he went courting Anne Hatha 

 way. By the king's highway the distance is some 

 farther, so there is a well-worn path along the hedge 

 rows and through the meadows and turnip patches. 

 The traveler in it has the privilege of crossing the 

 railroad track, an unusual privilege in England, and 

 one denied to the lord in his carriage, who must 

 either go over or under it. (It is a privilege, is it 

 not, to be allowed the forbidden, even if it be the 

 privilege of being run over by the engine 1 ?) In 

 strolling over the South Downs, too, I was delighted 

 to find that where the hill was steepest some bene 

 factor of the order of Avalkers had made notches in 

 the sward, so that the foot could bite the better and 

 firmer; the path became a kind of stairway, which 

 I have no doubt the plowman respected. 



When you see an English country church with 

 drawn, secluded, out of the reach of wheels, stand 

 ing amid grassy graves and surrounded by noble 

 trees, approached by paths and shaded lanes, you 

 appreciate more than ever this beautiful habit of 

 the people. Only a race that knows how to use its 

 feet, and holds footpaths sacred, could put such a 

 charm of privacy and humility into such a structure. 

 I think I should be tempted to go to church myself 

 if I saw all my neighbors starting off across the 



