The warm September day was drawing to a close; the red sun was sinking towards the west; the hilltop was aflame with a golden glow from the slanting rays of the declining sun.  Slowly we wended our way through the shadowy hollow below; looking back, the mound seemed crowned with glory.

Leaving Concord by Main Street we passed some famous homes, among them Thoreau’s earlier home, where he made lead-pencils with the deftness which characterized all his handiwork; turning to the left on Thoreau Street we crossed the tracks and took the Sudbury road through all the Sudburys,—­four in number; the roads were good and the country all the more interesting because not yet invaded by the penetrating trolley.  It would be sacrilegious for electric cars to go whizzing by the ancient tombs and monuments that fringe the road down through Sudbury; the automobile felt out of place and instinctively slowed down to stately and measured pace.

In all truth, one should walk, not ride, through this beautiful country, where every highway has its historic associations, every burying-ground its honored dead, every hamlet its weather-beaten monument.  But if one is to ride, the automobile—­incongruous as it may seem—­has this advantage,—­it will stand indefinitely anywhere; it may be left by the roadside for hours; no one can start it; hardly any person would maliciously harm it, providing it is far enough to one side so as not to frighten passing horses; excursions on foot may be made to any place of interest, then, when the day draws to a close, a half-hour suffices to reach the chosen resting-place.

It was getting dark as we passed beneath the stately trees bordering the old post-road which leads to the door of the “Wayside Inn.”

Here the stages from Boston to Worcester used to stop for dinner.  Here Washington, Lafayette, Burgoyne, and other great men of Revolutionary days had been entertained, for along this highway the troops marched and countermarched.  The old inn is rich in historic associations.

The road which leads to the very door of the inn is the old post-road; the finely macadamized State road which passes a little farther away is of recent dedication, and is located so as to leave the ancient hostelry a little retired from ordinary travel.

A weather-beaten sign with a red horse rampant swings at one corner of the main building.

  “Half effaced by rain and shine,
  The Red Horse prances on the sign.”

For nearly two hundred years, from 1683 to 1860, the inn was owned and kept by one family, the Howes, and was called by many “Howe’s Tavern,” by others “The Red Horse Inn.”

Since the publication of Longfellow’s “Tales of a Wayside Inn,” the place has been known by no other name than the one it now bears.

  “As ancient is this hostelry
  As any in the land may be,
  Built in the old Colonial day,
  When men lived in a grander way,
  With ampler hospitality;
  A kind of old Hobgoblin Hall,
  Now somewhat fallen to decay,
  With weather-stains upon the wall,
  And stairways worn, and crazy doors,
  And creaking and uneven floors,
  And chimneys huge, and tiled and tall.”