RURAL ENGLAND

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mean to be himpertinent, but can you hexplain why Americans 'ave a twang?"

"I do not know that I can," laughingly replies one of our party. "If we do have a twang, perhaps it is due to a habit, like that of the English, who drop the 'h where it belongs and then make matters even by using an 'h' where it does n't belong."

"Hupon my word!" replies the smiling inquirer. “We do misuse hour haitches, don't we? Hi believe we do, but hi don't think hi hever 'eard hof it before."

We pass the night at a quiet little inn, which has adjoining it one of those quaint gardens peculiar to English inns. Its winding paths and beds of roses tempt us to walk there after dinner. Some cages of brillianthued English pheasants are kept here, and we stop in the long evening twilight (so much longer than in America) to admire their gorgeous colors.

Early the following morning we are riding westward in our automobiles. We pass many little villages, but we do not find any large cities. As we proceed, the country grows more and more attractive. The fields are larger than those we saw yesterday, although still much smaller than in our country. The people all seem quiet and happy, and we recall that not nearly so many come to America from the South of England as from the North. Perhaps they are too contented with their present way of living and with their pleasant country, -as indeed they have much reason to be. It is living in or near large cities that makes people restless, and ambitious to better their condition. At Salisbury, we stop for luncheon. We visit the great cathedral with its towering, graceful spire. Soon, however, we enter our automobiles and ride nine miles to Stonehenge.

Here we see the remains of some huge altars that

were built no one knows how, or by whom, or how many years ago. How interesting it is to feel that we are looking upon the works of a people who were living here long before Old England received its name! In response to our questions, our guide informs us that some learned men maintain that these altars were erected by the Danes. Others believe that the Saxons, or even the ancient Phoenicians from beyond the Mediterranean Sea, built them. Most agree, however, that the stones are all that is left of some temple for the worship of the sun or of serpents. Perhaps the Druids used them for their terrible rites, in which human beings were sacrificed to their gods.

A YOUNG SOLDIER

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If we had more time we should like to go to the little villages of Wilton and Axminster, not far away. It would be interesting to see some of the famous carpets in process of making. We decide, however, to push forward.

"We can see the wool even if we cannot see the carpets into which it is made," laughs one of the boys, as we pass many flocks of sheep.

Before we depart from the hotel in Salisbury, one of the party enters into conversation with a young soldier

who is here waiting for a train. "I have been away from home nine years," says the young "redcoat." "I have in that time seen a good many lands, but to me none is so beautiful as Somersetshire where I was born."

"Why did you enlist?"

"My mother is a widow and poor, and we needed the money."

"Are you to remain long?"

"My furlough is three weeks. When the time is gone, I must go back to Malta. If I stay in the army twelve

years more, I can then retire on a pension. I love England. You cannot, understand what it means to me to come home. I shall see my dear mother, too. I was only a boy fourteen years of age when I last saw her."

The young soldier's eyes are moist as he speaks. We all see now what the life of an English soldier may mean. It is early in the evening when we arrive at the ancient village of Glastonbury and secure rooms in a hotel. This hotel, like many in the rural regions, is managed by a woman. She proudly informs us that the hotel was built in the reign of Henry VII. As she conducts two of our boys to their room, she says, as she is about to depart, "King Henry VIII and his queen once occupied this very room."

"That old courtyard down there, paved with stones, these little windows,

even these old beds,-make

me think our landlady was n't far from the truth," exclaims the boy, as he glances about him.

Glastonbury is located in what, in King Arthur's day, was the Vale of the Avalon." The "river," however, has long since disappeared, and the marshes and islands of those ancient days have been parts of a fertile valley ever since the land was drained years ago. There is a tradition that Christianity was first introduced into England at Glastonbury by Joseph of Arimathæa, mentioned

in the Bible. Whether true or not, the ruins of one of the oldest abbeys are here. We visit them one evening, when the moonlight is flooding with silver fallen towers, crumbling, ivy-covered walls, and ancient grounds, and when we can feel all the poetry and magic of the place. What wonderful tales, we think, of bygone days these stones might tell if they had voices! We are glad to remember that a wealthy American has recently made a gift to the fund raised to preserve these old walls from further decay.