Ante Scriptum

As I sat of an early summer morning in the shade of a tree, eating fried bacon with a tinker, the thought came to me that I might some day write a book of my own: a book that should treat of the roads and by-roads, of trees, and wind in lonely places, of rapid brooks and lazy streams, of the glory of dawn, the glow of evening, and the purple solitude of night； a book of wayside inns and sequestered taverns； a book of country things and ways and people. And the thought pleased me much.

"But," objected the Tinker, for I had spoken my thought aloud, "trees and suchlike don‘t sound very interestin‘--leastways--not in a book, for after all a tree‘s only a tree and an inn, an inn； no, you must tell of other things as well."

"Yes," said I, a little damped, "to be sure there is a highwayman--"

"Come, that‘s better!" said the Tinker encouragingly.

"Then," I went on, ticking off each item on my fingers, "come Tom Cragg, the pugilist--"

"Bet

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