within a few yards of each other. One name, that of "Silvernail," we
decided could only lawfully belong to a princess in a fairy tale. Such
childishness as this, I may say, is of the essence of a walking trip, in
which, from moment to moment, you take quite infantile interest in all
manner of idle observation and quite useless lore. That is a part of the
game you are playing, and the main thing is that you are out in the open
air, on the open road, with a simple heart and a romantic appetite.

Here is a little picture of a wayfaring day which I made while Colin was
sketching one of those ruined farms:

_Apples along the highway strewn,
And morning opening all her doors;
The cawing rook, the distant train,
The valley with its misty floors;

The hillside hung with woods and dreams,
Soft gleams of gossamer and dew;
From cockcrow to the rising moon
The rainbowed road for me and you.

Along the highroad all the day
The wagons filled with apples go,
And golden pumpkins and ripe corn,
And all the ruddy overflow

From Autumn's apron, as she goes
About her orchards and her fields,
And gathers into stack and barn
The treasure that the Summer yield.