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Accept a Bardie’s gratefu’ thanks!”

I shall fill this sheet for you in the Bardie’s country, going no further than this till I get into the town of Ayr which will be a 9 miles’ walk to Tea.

Deign to let the bardie sit          Near thy knee; Thy open brow, and laughing eye, Vanquishing the hidden sigh, Making care before thee fly,       Smiling Bacchus, god of wine!

Toward the close of our ever memorable day at Stratford-upon-Avon, as I was discoursing at length on the life and works of the Immortal Bard, I was shocked to hear Miss Henrietta Marble, of Rising Sun, Indiana, remark, sotto voce, that she, for one, had had about enough of Bardie—I quote her exact language—and wished to enquire if the rest did not think it was nearly time to go somewhere and buy a few souvenirs.

How at the third mile they cried off inland, and plunged into the valley by Waly’s bottom and Bardie’s farm, through the pleasant village of Steg, over the railway, and along the fringe of Swilford Wood, to the open heath beyond.