a conveyance for the suburbs of Boston, which
were laid out by cows for the use of pedestrians. There are an
infinite number of forks, angles, and turnings, and by a native on
foot short cuts can be made to any objective point, but the
automobile passes a byway before it is seen. Directions are given
but not followed, because turns and obscure cross-roads are passed
at high speed and unobserved.

Every one is most obliging in giving directions, but the
directions run about like this:

"To Concord?--yes,--let me see;--do you know the Old Sudbury
road?--No!--strangers?--ah! that's too bad, for if you don't know
the roads it will be hard telling you--but let me see;--if you
follow this road about a mile, you will come to a brick store and
a watering trough,--take the turn to the left there;--I think that
is the best road, or you can take a turn this side, but if I were
you I would take the road at the watering trough;--from there it
is about eight miles, and I think you make three turns,--but you
better inquire, for if you don't know the roads it is pretty hard
to direct you."

"We follow this road straight ahead to the brick store and trough,
that's easy."

"Well, the road is not exactly straight, but if you bear to the
right, then take the second left hand fork, you'll be all right."

All of which things we most faithfully performed, and yet we got
no nearer that day than "about eight miles farther to Concord."

In circling about we came quite unexpectedly upon the old "Red
Horse" tavern, now the "Wayside Inn." We brought the machine to a
stop and gazed long and lovingly at the ancient hostelry which had
given shelter to famous men for nearly two hundred years, and
where congenial spirits gathered in Longfellow's days and the
imaginary "Tales of a Wayside Inn" were exchanged.

The mellow light of the setting sun warmed the time-worn structure
with a friendly glow. The sign of the red horse rampant creaked
mournfully as it swung slowly to and fro in the gentle breeze;
with palsied arms and in cracked tones the old inn seemed to bid
us stay and rest beneath its sheltering eaves. Washington and
Hamilton and Lafayette, Emerson and Hawthorne and Longfellow had
entered that door, eaten and drunk within those humble walls,--the
great in war, statecraft, and literature had been its guests; like
an old man it lives with its memories, recalls the associations of
its youth and prime, but slumbers oblivious to the present.