To show I’m walking for my own delight,
And as a proof that I have coin to spend,
I always ask, “Where’s the best inn, my friend?”
Sometimes most like a botanist I go,
Keenly observing plants, with head bent down—
Pick flowers, or make pretence of doing so,
And pocket pebbles with a sapient frown.
Or sometimes, like a painter, I stand still
And gaze for half-an-hour on vale and hill.
When nearing some small village I retire