“It’s only a little more than twenty miles out to Windsor,” remarked Mrs. Pitt, one June morning. “Suppose we go in the motor, and then we can have a glimpse of both Stoke Poges and Eton School, on the way.”

There were always many exclamations of delight at mention of the “motor,” so it was settled, and the party set out at ten o’clock, all in the highest of spirits. It was slow and difficult driving through the city streets, but the English chauffeur was quite used to keeping to the left, as well as being perfectly familiar with the rules which govern the traffic, so he had none of the accidents which Betty and John had prophesied that their father’s American chauffeur would not be able to avoid. Very soon, however, they had reached the suburbs, and then they came into the open country.

They could go faster now, and the big touring-car sped over the wonderfully smooth roads at a speed which delighted the young people. The weather was proving a bit uncertain. Every little while, a tiny shower descended upon them out of a blue sky full of great white clouds, the sun shining warm and bright all the while.

“Oh, don’t let’s put up any umbrella,” exclaimed Betty, during one of the showers. “Rain never seems to do any harm in England. You don’t get wet, and never mind it a bit. Truly, I like it, for it’s so pretty to see it raining with the sun out. There! now, it’s stopped again! Just see that lovely rainbow!”

The English country is always beautiful in its individual way, but it is especially so on one of these showery days, when every leaf and flower looks fresher than ever with the rain-drops glistening on it. Now and then, they slowed down while passing through a busy town, where pretty ladies and children in little two-wheeled carts drove about doing the morning marketing. Most of the way, however, lay through country roads bordered by green-hedged fields in which the ever-present sheep grazed; and here and there were high brick walls over which the stately, vine-covered homes were just visible. There were also picturesque little workmen’s cottages at the edge of the wood, and lodges covered with climbing-roses.

It seemed as though they had only been riding a very short time when, upon emerging from a shady road, they drew up at a little gateway. John felt impatient at having to stop, and looked questioningly around at Mrs. Pitt from his place on the front seat. The others were already getting out, he found, and Mrs. Pitt was saying:

“This is Stoke Poges, and I want you to see it, for it’s such a lovely spot. Probably you have all learned in school parts of Gray’s ‘Elegy,’ and very likely you never cared or thought much about the poem. Even if that’s true, you can’t possibly help loving this peaceful, beautiful place, in which it was written.”

They were now walking along a little path which led into the church-yard. A straight gravel walk stretches between the graves, up to the ancient church, which is very small, and has one tower closely covered with ivy. The fine old Saxon porch, and one doorway show great age; but it is in the whole effect rather than in any detail of the little church and its surroundings that the charm lies. One cannot imagine a more quiet, remote spot! On one side is the group of yew-trees which Gray mentions in the poem, and in their shelter are the hoary stones which mark the graves of the “rude forefathers of the hamlet.” Standing there, one almost hesitates to speak above a whisper for fear of arousing something or somebody out of sleep, or of breaking the wonderful spell of the place. Pausing under those trees, and feasting one’s eyes upon the lovely, rural scene, not a sound reaches the ear except the twitter of the birds, and perhaps the faint jingle of a cow-bell. Mrs. Pitt gave a start at the sound of John’s voice, when he suddenly said:

“Let’s go and find Gray’s tomb, Philip; the guidebook says it’s on the other side of the church.”

The rest lingered for just one more look at the little church, with its vines, and the rich, dark-red brick-work of the moss-grown Saxon porch, which the sun touches lovingly as it filters through the heavy leafage of the yew-trees; then they followed Philip and John.

Close to the outer wall of the church is a large tomb in which Gray is buried with his beloved mother. No word on the slab tells that the famous poet is buried within; there is only his mother’s epitaph, which Gray wrote, and in which he speaks of himself as “the only child who had the misfortune to outlive her.”

When Mrs. Pitt came up, John was standing near the tomb with his hat off, saying, “All right, Mr. Gray; I’ll read your poem over again just as soon as ever I get home.”

The bustling, lively scenes of Eton School presented a marked contrast to the quiet of Stoke Poges. Moving about the grounds between the different school-buildings, were dozens of boys all dressed in the regulation Eton suit, such as Philip himself wore. They were laughing, shouting, and playing games, just like other boys, but such actions somehow seemed out of keeping with their quaint costumes. From the automobile John looked down upon them, his eyes full of wonder and surprise.

“I suppose they are real boys,” he said in a puzzled way, “but they don’t look like them.”

While Philip talked with some of his friends, and John lingered near the group, the others visited the beautiful Eton Chapel, and were especially interested in the familiar picture of Sir Galahad, which hangs there. The principal buildings of the school are ranged about two large courts; in the center of the Outer Quadrangle is a bronze statue of Henry VI, the founder of the school. The library is valuable and contains some costly books and manuscripts. Fox, Peel, Chatham, Wellington, and Shelley were Eton boys, and the latter’s autograph may still be seen on one of the desks.

As they left Eton and crossed the bridge over the Thames, they duly admired the magnificent view of Windsor Castle, which may be enjoyed from that point. Above its many roofs and towers stands the great round keep, the oldest part of the castle, having been built by Edward III.

The castle is on a hill in the center of the town, and the quaint, red-roofed houses reach even to its walls. After passing the statue of Queen Victoria, the automobile left the party at the entrance to the castle, through Henry VIII’s gateway, carved with the Tudor Rose. Inside, they joined a party and were shown about by a guide.

They saw so many buildings that John and Betty found it rather bewildering. In thinking it over afterwards, certain objects remained most clearly in their memory.

“St. George’s Chapel is really the most beautiful thing there, of course,” said Betty, as they rode away. “I never saw such carving as there is on the seats no, stalls in the choir! Henry VIII, Jane Seymour, and poor Charles I are buried there, too. I like those faded banners and the coats-of-arms which belonged to the Knights of the Garter. The whole place is lovely, I think. There are lots of little chapels off from it, too, like Westminster Abbey; didn’t the guide say that the tomb of Queen Victoria’s father, the Duke of Kent, is there?”

“Yes,” answered Mrs. Pitt, “and I hope you haven’t forgotten the Albert Chapel. It adjoins St. George’s, you remember, and we stood in the doorway when our turn came and looked in. It is very old, and is on the site of an ancient chapel of St. Edward, but Queen Victoria made it what it is now, and restored it in honor of her husband, Prince Albert. The interior is truly remarkable for its fine marbles, mosaics, sculptures, stained-glass, and precious stones. I fancy they would not especially appeal to you, however. How did you like the State Apartments? It was fortunate that the Royal Family was not in residence, so that we could be admitted.”

“Well,” began John, “they made us hurry so that I didn’t see very much. That guide drove us along as though we were a flock of sheep! I liked that big room though, where all the portraits of the generals are. They called it the Waterloo Room, didn’t they? Anyway, there were splendid pictures of Wellington, Metternich, Bluecher, and lots of other fellows. Did you see the busts of Wellington and Marlborough in one of the other rooms, Philip? There are silk flags which hang over both the busts, and that cross old guide growled out that they are replaced every year on the anniversaries of the two battles; Wellington gets a new flag on June 18th, because of Waterloo in 1815, and Marlborough gets his on August 13th, on account of the battle of Blenheim in 1704.”

“In that room,” explained Mrs. Pitt, “is where the ‘command’ theatrical performances are held. When the King hears the report of a play which he thinks he would like, he simply commands the company to come to him; and if he happens to be at Windsor, he and the Court witness the play in the Waterloo Chamber. Your American Sousa’s Band played there once. I saw Betty and Barbara lingering before the large picture of Charles I and his family. I am glad you liked it, girls, for that’s an especial delight of mine. Dear little ‘Baby Stuart’ is so lovable! That was in the Van Dyck Room, which contains many of that master’s works. Those State Apartments are only for the use of Royal guests, you understand, when they come on visits. I always wish that we could see the King or Queen’s private rooms, don’t you? It would be so interesting. What’s your favorite part of the castle, Barbara?”

“Oh, I like the terrace better than anything else,” Barbara answered, without a moment’s hesitation. “The view of the valley, with the river and Eton Chapel in the distance, is so pretty! Then, there is something so stately and impressive about the wide, long terrace itself. I once read that it was Queen Elizabeth’s favorite walk, and there couldn’t be a more appropriate place for a queen to choose. I like that gateway with E. R. on it, showing that it was built in Elizabeth’s reign; and it’s fun to look up to the little bay-window which is said to have been her room. Then I like the old Curfew Tower, too,” she added.

“Yes,” broke in Mrs. Pitt. “That’s one of the gloomiest parts of the whole castle, in its history as well as in its aspect. Of course, terrible things happened at Windsor just as they did elsewhere; but although Windsor dates from a very early period, and figures in the reigns of all the sovereigns, its history contains more of the bright and happy than of the tragic. Down in a miserable, windowless cell in the lower part of the Curfew Tower, it is wrongly said that Queen Anne Boleyn was put to spend the night before her execution, as you know, and there still remain in the Tower some fearful instruments of torture. The Horseshoe Cloister near there, is very ancient, and the houses are delightfully mediaeval. Did you look in some of the tiny windows as we passed through? It is said that in a small hall there, in the Horseshoe Cloister, Shakespeare’s ‘Merry Wives of Windsor’ was first produced.”

“Who was it that the guide told us was imprisoned near the Round Tower, and who fell in love with a lady whom he saw walking in the gardens? I have forgotten the names.” It was Betty who spoke, for she had been quietly thinking over the visit.

“That was young James of Scotland, whom Henry V caused to be captured in time of truce, and thrown into prison at Windsor, where he remained almost twenty years. The English treated him kindly, however, and he spent his time in studying and watching the lady in the garden, who afterwards became his queen.”

“Oh! But, really, the stables are best of all!” exclaimed Philip, who loved horses like a true Briton. “I do like to go there and be shown about by one of those men in the black suits and yellow vests, and the bright cockades in their silk hats. Once when I was little, one of them let me go into a stall and feed some sugar to a splendid great horse named Black Beauty. I wished I could do it to-day, too! All the carriages which carry the Court ladies are stupid, I think, but the horses and ponies are jolly!” whereupon Philip and John went off into an animated discussion about the horses of the Royal Stables, and how much they envied the men who cared for them.

“Oh, what a sweet little village!” cried Betty, jumping up excitedly, as the automobile slowed down and entered a little narrow lane.

Chalfont St. Giles is an extremely picturesque, old-time village. Its thatched-roofed cottages huddle together in a beautiful green valley, and about the edge of a pond where ducks swim, and happy, barefooted children play. One of the old houses is a place of interest to many, as the great poet, John Milton, lived there after he fled from London at the time of the plague.

The poet’s home is a most primitive cottage with low ceilings, and a little dark room, lighted by one casement window, in which he may have written part of “Paradise Lost.” When standing in that chamber, one is reminded of the well-known picture which shows the blind Milton dictating one of his poems to a daughter. Outside is a delightful old-fashioned garden in which the largest and reddest of poppies grow, and where it is said that Milton loved to linger.

“I wish we needn’t hurry,” sighed Mrs. Pitt, “but I’m afraid we’ll be late to dinner. See, we are short of time already!”

So they quickly took their seats again for the short trip back to town, and drew their wraps about them, as the air had grown chilly. They all felt rather tired, and were silent as they reviewed in mind the history and scenes of Windsor Castle, one of the most beautiful and certainly the most famous of English royal residences.