214 WINTER SUNSHINE 



front of the church, and, without regarding the 

 mirror that so drew my eye, preened their plumage ; 

 while, farther up, a piebald cow reached down for 

 some grass under the brink where the frost had not 

 settled, and a piebald cow in the river reached up 

 for the same morsel. Hooks and crows and jack 

 daws were noisy in the trees overhead and about 

 the church spire. I stood a long while musing 

 upon the scene. 



At the birthplace of the poet, the keeper, an 

 elderly woman, shivered with cold as she showed 

 me about. The primitive, home-made appearance 

 of things, the stone floor much worn and broken, 

 the rude oak beams and doors, the leaden sash with 

 the little window-panes scratched full of names, 

 among others that of Walter Scott, the great chim 

 neys where quite a family could literally sit in the 

 chimney corner, etc., were what I expected to see, 

 and looked very human and good. It is impossible 

 to associate anything but sterling qualities and sim 

 ple, healthful characters with these early English 

 birthplaces. They are nests built with faithfulness 

 and affection, and through them one seems to get 

 a glimpse of devouter, sturdier times. 



From Stratford I went back to Warwick, thence 

 to Birmingham, thence to Shrewsbury, thence to 

 Chester, the old Roman camp, thence to Holyhead, 

 being intent on getting a glimpse of Wales and the 

 Welsh, and maybe taking a tramp up Snowdon or 

 some of his congeners, for my legs literally ached 

 for a mountain climb, a certain set of muscles being 



