CHAPTER XII.
A BREATH OF ENGLISH AIR.
My friend looked white as the wall, flung the "London Times" half across the room, kicked one slipper into the air and shouted, "Talmage, where on earth did you come from ?" as one summer I stepped into his English home.
"Just come over the ferry to dine with you," I responded.

After some explanation about the health of my family, which demanded a sea voyage, and thus necessitated my coming, we planned two or three excursions.
At eight o'clock in the morning we gathered in the parlor in the Red Horse Hotel, at Stratford-on-Avon.

Two pictures of Washington Irving, the chair in which the father of American literature sat, and the table on which he wrote, immortalizing his visit to that hotel, adorn the room.

From thence we sallied forth to see the clean, quaint village of Stratford.

It was built just to have Shakspeare born in.