All the rooms are named after Shakespeare’s plays, painted over the doors in black letters. We slept in “All’s Well That Ends Well”––a good name––and we slept peaceful, thinkin’ likely that it would turn out so. Miss Meechim had the “Merry Wives of Windsor.” She wanted to change with Arvilly, who had “Love’s Labor’s Lost,” but Arvilly wouldn’t budge.
Miss Meechim told me in confidence that if Shakespeare could have had the benefit of her advice he would probable have called it “The Unfortunate Wives of Windsor.” “And then,” sez she, “I could have occupied it with more pleasure.” But I didn’t much think that he would have changed his plans or poetry if she had been on the spot.
The next morning early we set out for Shakespeare’s cottage, described so often, saw the room in which the great poet was born, and wuz told that nothing had been changed there since he lay in his cradle, which we could believe as we looked about us on the low walls, the diamond panes of the windows and the quaint old furniture. The cottage is now used for Shakespeare’s relics, some of which looked as if they might be real, and some as if they wuz made day before yesterday. We visited the church where he wuz baptized and saw on one of the pews the metal plate on which is engraved the name of the poet’s father.
And, thinkin’ that a visit to Shakespeare’s home wouldn’t be complete without seeing the place where his heart journeyed whilst his life wuz young and full of hope and joy, we drove out to Shottery, to the little farmhouse where his sweetheart, Ann Hathaway, lived.
It is a quaint little cottage, and after going through it we drank a glass of water drawn up by a well sweep from the very same old well from which Shakespeare drank so many times. As I stood there I saw in fancy the rosy, dimpled Ann handing the crystal water to the boy, Will, who mebby whispered to her as he took the glass sweet words, all rhyming with youth and joy and love.
And the same blue sky bent above us; birds wheeled and sung over our heads, descendants, mebby, of the birds that sung to them that day. I had sights of emotions––sights of ’em––and so I did in the cottage as I sot on the old, old settle in the corner of the fireplace, whose age nobdy could dispute, as its stiff old joints are strengthened with bands of iron, where young Will Shakespeare and his sweetheart often sat, and where he might have read to her the new poem in honor of her charms:
“To melt the sad, make blithe the gay,
And nature charm Ann hath a way.
She hath a will,