Titania's Courtesy to the Wayfarer

(From A Midsummer-Night's Dream)

TITANIA. Peas-blossom! Cobweb! Moth!

and Mustard-seed!

(Enter four Fairies.)

First Fairy. Ready.

Second Fairy. And I.

Third Fairy. And I.

Fourth Fairy.

Where shall we go?

Titania. Be kind and courteous to this gentle

man;

Hop in his walks, and gambol in his eyes; Feed him with apricocks, and dewberries; With purple grapes, green figs, and mulberries; The honey bags steal from the humble bees, And, for night-tapers, crop their waxen thighs, And light them at the fiery glow-worm's eyes, To have my love to bed, and to arise;

And pluck the wings from painted butterflies, To fan the moonbeams from his sleeping eyes; Nod to him, elves, and do him courtesies.

William Shakespeare.

All Day A-foot

(From Pagan Papers)

A

DAY'S Ride a Life's Romance was the excellent title of an unsuccessful book; and indeed the journey should march with the day, beginning and ending with its sun, to be the complete thing, the golden round required of it. This makes that mind and body fare together, hand in hand, sharing the hope, the action, the fruition; finding equal sweetness in the languor of aching limbs at eve, and in the first god-like intoxication of motion with. braced muscle in the sun. For walk or ride take the mind over greater distances than a throbbing whirl with stiffening joints and cramped limbs through a dozen counties. Surely you seem to cover vaster spaces with Lavengro, footing it with gypsies or driving his tinker's cart across lonely commons, than with many a globe-trotter or steam-yachtsman with diary or log?

Kenneth Grahame.

The Vagabond

(To an air of Schubert)

IVE to me the life I love,

GIV

Let the lave go by me,

Give the jolly heaven above
And the byway nigh me.

Bed in the bush with stars to see,
Bread I dip in the river-
There's the life for a man like me,
There's the life for ever.

Let the blow fall soon or late,
Let what will be o'er me;
Give the face of earth around
And the road before me.
Wealth I seek not, hope nor love,
Nor a friend to know me;
All I seek, the heaven above
And the road below me.

Or let autumn fall on me
Where afield I linger,
Silencing the bird on tree,

Biting the blue finger.
White as meal the frosty field-

Warm the fireside haven

Not to autumn will I yield,

Not to winter even!

Let the blow fall soon or late,

Let what will be o'er me;
Give the face of earth around,
And the road before me.
Wealth I ask not, hope nor love,
Nor a friend to know me;

All I ask, the heaven above
And the road below me.

Robert Louis Stevenson.

The White Road up Athirt the Hill

WH

HEN high hot zuns da strik right
down,

An' burn our zweaty fiazen brown,
An' zunny hangèns that be nigh
Be back'd by hills so blue's the sky;
Then while the bells da sweetly cheem
Upon the champèn high-neck'd team
How lively, wi' a friend, da seem

The white road up athirt the hill.

The zwellen downs, wi' chaky tracks,
A-climmèn up ther zunny backs,

Da hide green meäds, an' zedgy brooks,
An' clumps o' trees wi' glossy rooks,

An' hearty vo'ke to lafe and zing,
An' churches wi' ther bells to ring,
In parishes al in a string

Wi' white roads up athirt the hills.

At feäst, when uncle's vo'ke da come
To spend the da wi' we at huome,
An' we da put upon the buard
The best of al we can avvuord,
The wolden oons do ta'ke an' smoke,
An' younger oons da play an' joke,
An' in the evemen all our vo❜ke

Da bring 'em gwáin athirt the hill.

Var then the green da zwarm wi' wold
An' young so thick as sheep in vuold.
The billis in the blacksmith's shop
An' mesh-green waterwheel da stop,
An' luonesome in the wheelwright's shed
's a-left the wheelless waggon bed,
While zwarms o' comen-friends da tread

The white road down athirt the hill.

An' when the winden road so white
A-climmen up the hill in zight,
Da leäd to pliazen, east ar west
The vust a-know'd an' lov'd the best,