eroic
drama of the past. Think, for instance, of the boulder monument at
Fairfield, commemorating its birth in 1639 and its burning by the
British in 1779!

We crossed the river at Westport, and found the scenery even prettier
than before. Then, after Fairfield, we came out on the Post Road again,
though it called itself "Fairfield Avenue," and presently we were in a
turmoil of life at Bridgeport. There was as much noise as in New York,
but a hundred thousand people can make themselves heard in the world,
especially if they're Americans! Haven't we read in the papers about
immense buildings blowing up at Bridgeport since the war began? But we
couldn't see anything that looked blown up, or sensational, except the
heroes on posters of "movie" theatres--oh, more movie theatres than I
thought there were in the world! We tried to listen through the roar and
rumble of a big town for gorgeous distant yells of lions and trumpetings
of elephants, but perhaps the dear beasts were off on "tour." Bridgeport
is only the winter quarters of Barnum, and now we are on the way to
summer. By the by, Bridgeport people ought to enjoy themselves in
summer, judging from all the yachts and pleasure boats we saw dancing in
their sleep on the water.

After Stratford (a most lovable old town, of charming gray-shingle
houses, which, to escape loneliness, crowded close to the edge of the
elm-shaded road) we crossed the Housatonic. The shores stretched away
into mystery, so broad was the river; and the moment we were out of a
town, in the country, the scene was like a dream of Indian days, just
interrupted by waking now and then at sight of some houses grouped round
a common. There was Milford, for instance, which looked as if nothing
could happen in its pretty peacefulness, yet it was the hiding-place of
a regicide judge who ran away to America after the head of Charles the
First was off!

At New Haven, the "City of Elms," we could have turned toward Boston
along a fine road by way of Springfield, but we preferred to keep to the
charming coast road, and it goes without saying that we stopped to prowl
about among the college buildings; also we lunched. "A village of
learning and light" the place is called, but of course its village days
are outgrown, though the learning and light will remain forever, while
Yale lasts. Washington reviewed the Yale students on the Green, which is
the historic centre of New Haven, just as the college is its
ever-pu