FROM LONDON TO NEW YORK. 231 



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. Re- 

 turning, I stepped into the Shakespeare Tavern, a 

 little homely wayside place on a street, or more like 

 a path, apart from the main road, and the good dame 

 brought me some " home-brewed," which I drank 

 sitting by a rude table on a rude bench in a small, 

 low room, with a stone floor and an immense chim- 

 ney. The coals burned cheerily, and the crane and 

 hooks in the fireplace called up visions of my earliest 

 childhood. Apparently the house and the surround- 

 ings, and the atmosphere of the place and the ways 

 of the people, were what they were three hundred 

 years ago. It was all sweet and good, and I enjoyed 

 it hugely, and was much refreshed. 



Crossing the fields in the gloaming, I came up with 

 some children, each with a tin bucket of milk, thread- 

 ing their way toward Stratford. The little girl, a 

 child ten years old, having a larger bucket than the 

 rest, was obliged to set down her burden every few 

 rods and rest ; so I lent her a helping hand. I 

 thought her prattle, in that broad but musical patois, 

 and along these old hedge-rows, the most delicious I 

 ever heard. She said they came to Shattery for milk 

 because it was much better than they got at Stratford. 

 In America they had a cow of their own. Had she 

 lived in America then ? " Oh, yes, four years," and 

 the stream of her talk was fuller at once. But I 

 hardly recognized even the name of my own country 



