Having wandered from the old turnpike, we thought we would go by Concord and Lexington, but did not.  The truth is the automobile is altogether too fast a conveyance for the suburbs of Boston, which were laid out by cows for the use of pedestrians.  There are an infinite number of forks, angles, and turnings, and by a native on foot short cuts can be made to any objective point, but the automobile passes a byway before it is seen.  Directions are given but not followed, because turns and obscure cross-roads are passed at high speed and unobserved.

Every one is most obliging in giving directions, but the directions run about like this: 

“To Concord?—­yes,—­let me see;—­do you know the Old Sudbury road?—­No!—­strangers?—­ah! that’s too bad, for if you don’t know the roads it will be hard telling you—­but let me see;—­if you follow this road about a mile, you will come to a brick store and a watering trough,—­take the turn to the left there;—­I think that is the best road, or you can take a turn this side, but if I were you I would take the road at the watering trough;—­from there it is about eight miles, and I think you make three turns,—­but you better inquire, for if you don’t know the roads it is pretty hard to direct you.”

“We follow this road straight ahead to the brick store and trough, that’s easy.”

“Well, the road is not exactly straight, but if you bear to the right, then take the second left hand fork, you’ll be all right.”

All of which things we most faithfully performed, and yet we got no nearer that day than “about eight miles farther to Concord.”

In circling about we came quite unexpectedly upon the old “Red Horse” tavern, now the “Wayside Inn.”  We brought the machine to a stop and gazed long and lovingly at the ancient hostelry which had given shelter to famous men for nearly two hundred years, and where congenial spirits gathered in Longfellow’s days and the imaginary “Tales of a Wayside Inn” were exchanged.

The mellow light of the setting sun warmed the time-worn structure with a friendly glow.  The sign of the red horse rampant creaked mournfully as it swung slowly to and fro in the gentle breeze; with palsied arms and in cracked tones the old inn seemed to bid us stay and rest beneath its sheltering eaves.  Washington and Hamilton and Lafayette, Emerson and Hawthorne and Longfellow had entered that door, eaten and drunk within those humble walls,—­the great in war, statecraft, and literature had been its guests; like an old man it lives with its memories, recalls the associations of its youth and prime, but slumbers oblivious to the present.

The old inn was so fascinating that we determined to come back in a few days and spend at least a night beneath its roof.  The shadows were so rapidly lengthening that we had to hurry on.