I have ran away from London in early July, run away from its heat, its bedraggled Jubilee decorations, many of which still flap sadly in the air, like a tale that is told. We have all experienced the misery of an early morning breakfast, after a brilliant evening reception. We have had perchance to catch a train, so the sleepy maids have roused themselves to give us a bite of food at uncanonical hours. How dreadful the wreck of flowers, the odour of stale champagne, in rows of dissipated looking cut glasses, the cigarette ends and burnt matches on the table, one corner of which has been made ready for our meal. It is such a terrible disillusion in the morning light! Why do housekeepers over allow it? Ineverdo. No matter how late our festivities, the maids are instructed to clear away the remains of the feast. They are allowed to sleep as long, the next morning, as may be necessary for them to do, in order to repair the ravages of fatigue and extra hours of service. But—I decline to descend to my dining-room, and find rooms un-aired, and scraps not cleared away by eighto'clock in the morning of a new day.
Well, London was not aired and tidied up, so I came to Limpley Stoke which lies in the lap of three counties, in the West of England—Wiltshire, Somersetshire, and Chccoemteesaire, Ie te a sat delightful Sous towing Hilly at vallags, rise ace, full of green things all a growin; and rivulets, and the eloquent hush of midsummer over all.
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.