210 WINTER SUNSHINE 



such occasions was read, after which the coffin was 

 taken out as it was brought in, and lowered into the 

 grave. It was the smallest funeral I ever saw, and 

 my efforts to play the part of a sympathizing public 

 by hovering in the background, I fear, was only an 

 intrusion after all. 



Having loitered to my heart's content amid the 

 stillness of the old church, and paced to and fro 

 above the illustrious dead, I set out, with the sun 

 about an hour high, to see the house of Anne Hatha 

 way at Shottery, shunning the highway and follow 

 ing a path that followed hedge-rows, crossed mead 

 ows and pastures, skirted turnip fields and cabbage 

 patches, to a quaint gathering of low thatched houses, 

 a little village of farmers and laborers, about a 

 mile from Stratford. At the gate in front of the 

 house a boy was hitching a little gray donkey, al 

 most hidden beneath two immense panniers filled 

 with coarse hay. 



"Whose house is this?" inquired I, not being 

 quite able to make out the name. 



"Hann' Ataway's 'ouse," said he. 



So I took a good look at Anne's house, a 

 homely, human-looking habitation, with its old oak 

 beams and thatched roof, but did not go in, as 

 Mrs. Baker, who was eying me from the door, evi 

 dently hoped I would, but chose rather to walk past 

 it and up the slight rise of ground beyond, where I 

 paused and looked out over the fields, just lit up 

 by the setting sun. Returning, I stepped into the 

 Shakespeare Tavern, a little, homely wayside place 



