o were all walking the same way. I joined
them, and thereby was led into the great meetinghouse of the Quakers, near
the market. I sat down among them, and, after looking round awhile and
hearing nothing said, being very drowsy through labor and want of rest the
preceding night, I fell fast asleep, and continued so till the meeting
broke up, when one was kind enough to rouse me. This was, therefore, the
first house I was in, or slept in, in Philadelphia.

Walking down again toward the river, and looking in the faces of people, I
met a young Quaker man, whose countenance I liked, and, accosting him,
requested he would tell me where a stranger could get lodging. We were
then near the sign of the Three Mariners. "Here," says he, "is one place
that entertains strangers, but it is not a reputable house; if thee wilt
walk with me, I'll show thee a better." He brought me to the Crooked
Billet, in Water Street. Here I got a dinner; and, while I was eating it,
several sly questions were asked me, as it seemed to be suspected from my
youth and appearance that I might be some runaway. After dinner my
sleepiness returned, and, being shown to a bed, I lay down without
undressing, and slept till six in the evening; was called to supper, went
to bed again very early, and slept soundly till next morning.

NOTE.--The river referred to is the Delaware. Franklin was on his way from
Boston to Philadelphia, and had just walked from Amboy to Burlington, New
Jersey, a distance of fifty miles.

CXXVII. LINES TO A WATERFOWL. (434)

Whither 'midst falling dew,
While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue
Thy solitary way?

Vainly the fowler's eye
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,
Thy figure floats along.

Seek'st thou the plashy brink
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,
Or where the rocky billows rise and sink
On the chafed ocean side?

There is a Power whose care
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast.
The desert and illimitable air,
Lone wandering, but not lost.

All day, thy wings have fanned,
At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere,
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land
Though the dark night is near.

And soon that toil shall end,
Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest,
And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend,
Soon, o'er thy sheltered n