built when Philadelphia itself was hardly more than a village—are Guernsey calves, soft as a plush cushion, with bright topaz eyes. Madrigal told how he had written a poem about Old St. David's when he was sixteen, in which he described the "kine" grazing by the stream, and in which (after the manner of poets in their teens) he besought merciful Death to come and take him. Death, one supposes, was sorely tempted, but happily refrained from reaping the tender bardling.
In the quiet graveyard of Old St. David's the travelers halted a while, to see the grave of Anthony Wayne and admire the thin trailers of the larches swinging in the golden flood of late sunlight that slanted down the valley. It was 6 o'clock, and they were beginning to doubt their ability to reach their destination on time. A party of motorists were just leaving the church, and both Madrigal and Doggerel loitered pointedly by the gate in hopes of a lift. But no such fortune. So they set valiantly upon the last leg of the afternoon. In a shady bend of the road came a merry motor zooming along and Doggerel's friend, Jarden Guenther, at the wheel. Mr. Guenther was doubtless amazed to see Doggerel in this remote spot, but he was going the other way, and passed with a cheerful halloo. Then, by the old Defense Signal tree on the Paoli road, came a flivver, which rescued the two plodders and took them two miles or so on their way. By the Tredyffrin golf course they were set down before a winding byway,
