fe and daughter, or his descendants, lived in it for many years
after. And then it was bought by the Rev. Francis Gastrell, a Cheshire
vicar, who began by cutting down Shakespeare's mulberry tree--under
which not only the poet had sat, but also Garrick--because he was
annoyed that visitors wished to see it; and then, a little later, in
his rage at the demand for the poor rate (a tax to help support the
workhouse, which, since he was living elsewhere, he considered he ought
not to have to pay), he pulled down the building too. That was in 1759,
and now the site of the house is a public garden where you may walk and
still see of this memorable habitation only the traces of some of the
walls and Shakespeare's well.

They found the old gentleman from the hotel in the garden reading his
guidebook, and it was he who told them the story. "So far as I can
understand," said he, "nothing was done to the man at all. Nobody
horsewhipped him. It was lucky it did not happen in America."

The old gentleman, whose name was Nicholas Imber, and who came from
Philadelphia, then took them to see Harvard house, of which he, as an
American, was very proud, and they drifted about with him, and looked
at other of the old Stratford buildings.

All the time he kept on saying quietly to himself: "Vengeance on the
Rev. Francis Gastrell!"

"Perhaps," said Hester, "there is a mistake in the verses in the
church. Perhaps they ought to be:

"'Bleste be ye man yt spares these bones,
And curst be he yt moves my stones.'

That would mean the Rev. Francis Gastrell."

"I hope so," said Mr. Imber. "It's a very good idea. But why do you
like Shakespeare so?"

"He's so wonderful," said Hester.

"Yes, but so is Scott, say, and Dickens."

"Oh, but Shakespeare's so beautiful, too," said Hester.

The children had gone alone to the church on the Monday morning. On
returning to the hotel they found Mrs. Avory ready for them, and all
started for the birthplace in Henley Street, where Shakespeare was
born, probably on April 23, 1564. This is now a museum with all kinds
of Shakespeare relics in it, profoundly interesting to Hester if not to
the others. The desk at which he sat in the Grammar School is there;
and his big chair from the Falcon Inn at Bidford; and many portraits;
and on one of the windows, scratched with a diamond, is the name of Sir
Walter Scott. The boys wanted to write their names, too, but it is no
longer allowed; although I fancy t