on a hot afternoon I chased a whole village
that skipped quite as miraculously before me across the country. It
was a village of stout leg and wind and, as often as I inquired, it
still kept seven miles ahead. Once only I gained, by trotting on a
descent. Not until night when the village lay down to rest beside a
quiet river did I finally overtake it. And the next morning I arose
early in order to be off first upon my travels, and so keep the lively
rascal in the rear.

In my country walks I usually carry a book in the pocket opposite to
my lunch. I seldom read it, but it is a comfort to have it handy. I am
told that at one of the colleges, students of smaller application, in
order that they may truthfully answer as to the length of time they
have spent upon their books, do therefore literally sit upon a pile of
them, as on a stool, while they engage in pleasanter and more secular
reading. I do not examine this story closely, which rises, doubtless,
from the jealousy of a rival college. Rather, I think that these
students perch upon the books which presently they must read, on a
wise instinct that this preliminary contact starts their knowledge.
And therefore a favorite volume, even if unopened in the pocket, does
nevertheless by its proximity color and enhance the enjoyment of the
day. I have carried Howell, who wrote the "Familiar Letters," unread
along the countryside. A small volume of Boswell has grown dingy in my
pocket. I have gone about with a copy of Addison with long S's, but I
read it chiefly at home when my feet are on the fender.

I had by me once as I crossed the Devon moors a volume of "Richard
Feverel." For fifteen miles I had struck across the upland where there
is scarcely a house in sight--nothing but grazing sheep and wild
ponies that ran at my approach. Sometimes a marshy stream flowed down
a shallow valley, with a curl of smoke from a house that stood in the
hollow. At the edge of this moorland, I came into a shady valley that
proceeded to the ocean. My feet were pinched and tired when I heard
the sound of water below the road. I pushed aside the bushes and saw a
stream trickling on the rocks. I thrust my head into a pool until the
water ran into my ears, and then sat with my bare feet upon the cool
stones where the runnel lapped them, and read "Richard Feverel." To
this day, at the mention of the title, I can hear the pleasant brawl
of water and the stirring of the branches in the wind that wande