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. Rooks 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 



