Produced by David Widger (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive) I HAD been down to spend a summer’s day at Eton. Dear old Eton! There is no place where a summer’s day can be more happily spent, especially by those to whom the spot is hallowed by the memory of boyish days. The “playing-fields” are delightful, in spite of the passage through the same being a service of danger when cricket-balls whiz recklessly past your ear, and a courteous “thank you!” invites your hand to restore to its owner the engine which has nearly broken your head. “Poet’s Walk” is charming, although its memories may not be entirely pleasant if you chance in your boyhoo…
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