Quite at Home

           Thedayhadbrightenedverymuch,andstillbrightenedaswewentwestward.Wewentourwaythroughthesunshineandthefreshair,wonderingmoreandmoreattheextentofthestreets,thebrilliancyoftheshops,thegreattraffic,andthecrowdsofpeoplewhomthepleasanterweatherseemedtohavebroughtoutlikemany-colouredflowers.Byandbywebegantoleavethewonderfulcityandtoproceedthroughsuburbswhich,ofthemselves,wouldhavemadeaprettylargetowninmyeyes;andatlastwegotintoarealcountryroadagain,withwindmills,rick-yards,milestones,farmers’waggons,scentsofoldhay,swingingsigns,andhorsetroughs:trees,fields,andhedge-rows.Itwasdelightfultoseethegreenlandscapebeforeusandtheimmensemetropolisbehind;andwhenawaggonwithatrainofbeautifulhorses,furnishedwithredtrappingsandclear-soundingbells,camebyuswithitsmusic,Ibelievewecouldallthreehavesungtothebells,socheerfulweretheinfluencesaround."ThewholeroadhasbeenremindingmeofmynamesakeWhittington,"saidRichard,"andthatwaggonisthefinishingtouch.Halloa!What’sthematter?"Wehadstopped,andthewaggonhadstoppedtoo.Itsmusicchangedasthehorsescametoastand,andsubsidedtoagentletinkling,exceptwhenahorsetossedhisheadorshookhimselfandsprinkledoffalittleshowerofbell-ringing."Ourpostilionislookingafterthewaggoner,"saidRichard,"andthewaggoneriscomingbackafterus.Goodday,friend!"Thewaggonerwasatourcoach-door."Why,here’sanextraordinarything!"addedRichard,lookingcloselyattheman.