children in little two-wheeled carts drove
about doing the morning marketing. Most of the way, however, lay
through country roads bordered by green-hedged fields in which the
ever-present sheep grazed; and here and there were high brick walls
over which the stately, vine-covered homes were just visible. There
were also picturesque little workmen's cottages at the edge of the
wood, and lodges covered with climbing-roses.

It seemed as though they had only been riding a very short time when,
upon emerging from a shady road, they drew up at a little gateway.
John felt impatient at having to stop, and looked questioningly around
at Mrs. Pitt from his place on the front seat. The others were already
getting out, he found, and Mrs. Pitt was saying:

"This is Stoke Poges, and I want you to see it, for it's such a lovely
spot. Probably you have all learned in school parts of Gray's 'Elegy,'
and very likely you never cared or thought much about the poem. Even
if that's true, you can't possibly help loving this peaceful,
beautiful place, in which it was written."

[Illustration: THE MOSS-GROWN SAXON PORCH.--_Page 97._]

They were now walking along a little path which led into the
church-yard. A straight gravel walk stretches between the graves, up
to the ancient church, which is very small, and has one tower closely
covered with ivy. The fine old Saxon porch, and one doorway show great
age; but it is in the whole effect rather than in any detail of the
little church and its surroundings that the charm lies. One cannot
imagine a more quiet, remote spot! On one side is the group of
yew-trees which Gray mentions in the poem, and in their shelter are
the hoary stones which mark the graves of the "rude forefathers of the
hamlet." Standing there, one almost hesitates to speak above a whisper
for fear of arousing something or somebody out of sleep, or of
breaking the wonderful spell of the place. Pausing under those trees,
and feasting one's eyes upon the lovely, rural scene, not a sound
reaches the ear except the twitter of the birds, and perhaps the faint
jingle of a cow-bell. Mrs. Pitt gave a start at the sound of John's
voice, when he suddenly said:

"Let's go and find Gray's tomb, Philip; the guidebook says it's on the
other side of the church."

The rest lingered for just one more look at the little church, with
its vines, and the rich, dark-red brick-work of the moss-grown Saxon
porch, which the sun touches lovingly as it