FROM LONDON TO NEW YORK. 233 



Here we emerged from the fields into the high- 

 way, and the happy children went their way and 1 

 mine. 



In the evening, as I was strolling about the town, 

 a poor, crippled, half-witted fellow came jerking him- 

 self across the street after me and offered himself as 

 a guide. 



" I 'm the feller what showed Artemus Ward 

 around when he was here. You 've heerd on me, I 

 expect ? Not ? Why, he characterized me in 'Punch,' 

 he did. He asked me if Shakespeare took all the wit 

 out of Stratford? And this is what I said to him : 

 ' No, he left some for me.' " 



But not wishing to be guided just then, I bought 

 the poor fellow off with a few pence, and kept on ray 

 way. 



Stratford is a quiet old place, and seems mainly 

 the abode of simple common folk. One sees no 

 marked signs of either poverty or riches. It is situ- 

 ated in a beautiful expanse of rich rolling farming 

 country, but bears little resemblance to a rural town 

 in America : not a tree, not a spear of grass ; the 

 houses packed close together and crowded up on the 

 ttreet, the older ones presenting their gables and 

 showing their structure of oak beams. English oak 

 seems incapable of decay even when exposed to the 

 weather, while in-doors it takes three or four centu- 

 ries to give it its best polish and hue. 



I took my last view of Stratford quite early of a 

 bright Sunday morning, when the ground was white 



