On Henley street, in quiet Stratford town, there stands an old half-timbered house. The panels between the dark beams are of soft-colored yellow plaster. The windows are filled with little diamond panes; and in one of the upper rooms they are guarded with fine wire outside the old glass, which is misty with innumerable names scratched all over it. Poets and princes, wise men and foolish, have scrawled their names after a silly fashion, on... more...

Where many a cloud-wreathed mountain blanchesEternally in the blue abyss,And tosses its torrents and avalanchesThundering from cliff and precipice,There is the lovely land of the Swiss,—Land of lakes and of icy seas,Of chamois and chalets,And beautiful valleys,Musical boxes, watches, and cheese. Picturesque, with its landscapes green and cool,Sleek cattle standing in shadow or pool,And dairy-maids bearing pail and stool,—That is... more...