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 1 " 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 



