Reverently, with bowed heads, we stood on that pine-covered ridge
which contained the mortal remains of so many who are great and
illustrious in the annals of American literature. A scant patch of
earth hides their dust, but their fancies, their imaginings, their
philosophy spanned human conduct, emotions, beliefs, and
aspirations from the cradle to the grave.

The warm September day was drawing to a close; the red sun was
sinking towards the west; the hilltop was aflame with a golden
glow from the slanting rays of the declining sun. Slowly we wended
our way through the shadowy hollow below; looking back, the mound
seemed crowned with glory.

Leaving Concord by Main Street we passed some famous homes, among
them Thoreau's earlier home, where he made lead-pencils with the
deftness which characterized all his handiwork; turning to the
left on Thoreau Street we crossed the tracks and took the Sudbury
road through all the Sudburys,--four in number; the roads were
good and the country all the more interesting because not yet
invaded by the penetrating trolley. It would be sacrilegious for
electric cars to go whizzing by the ancient tombs and monuments
that fringe the road down through Sudbury; the automobile felt out
of place and instinctively slowed down to stately and measured
pace.

In all truth, one should walk, not ride, through this beautiful
country, where every highway has its historic associations, every
burying-ground its honored dead, every hamlet its weather-beaten
monument. But if one is to ride, the automobile--incongruous as it
may seem--has this advantage,--it will stand indefinitely
anywhere; it may be left by the roadside for hours; no one can
start it; hardly any person would maliciously harm it, providing
it is far enough to one side so as not to frighten passing horses;
excursions on foot may be made to any place of interest, then,
when the day draws to a close, a half-hour suffices to reach the
chosen resting-place.

It was getting dark as we passed beneath the stately trees
bordering the old post-road which leads to the door of the
"Wayside Inn."

Here the stages from Boston to Worcester used to stop for dinner.
Here Washington, Lafayette, Burgoyne, and other great men of
Revolutionary days had been entertained, for along this highway
the troops marched and countermarched. The old inn is rich in
historic associations.

The road which leads to the very door of the inn is the old
post-road; th