Improvement Era, 1901 by Unknown

Author:Unknown
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Religion

Warwick and Kenilworth. By Lydia D. Alder, English Missionary.

June, the month of roses and bloom, finds us in old-fashioned, sleepy Warwick. What a host of pleasant memories arise at the mention of the name! We have just arrived from Birmingham, having attended the semi-annual conference, and we go out for a walk to Leamington. Standing on the bridge that spans the little stream, we have the best view of the Warwick castle.

On this rather sluggish stream, young people often glide in little pleasure boats that go almost to the fine falls, at the point where the water touches nearest to the sombre castle, whose battlements tower ever so high above.

Leamington adjoins Warwick, the walk being only about two and a half miles; but it does not seem so far. The trees and hedges, on either side of the road, cast long shadows, making it cool and pleasant. Through them the sun's last rays flash crimson and gold. All is quiet, save the twitter of the birds. We sit down to listen to them. The cuckoo is calling, and the echo repeats, softly, "cuckoo, cuckoo." The effect of silence and sound, seems different here. Silence seems full of speech, while sound seems first near, then far away, and grows wider and wider in sound waves, even to the trees in the farther fields, where feathered songsters are singing low their evening songs.

Leamington is a fashionable town, noted for its famous spa water, which we taste at the iron fountain near the railway bridge. We decide we do not like it. The streets are wide and modern; the shop windows display costly goods, and the people are well dressed. The gardens are lovely, so we seat ourselves to enjoy the cool breeze, and feast our eyes on the gorgeous beds of flowers. They are very wide, and extend almost to the band stand, which is erected in the centre of the well-kept lawn. Now and then, dreamy melodies are wafted on the air, but we are too weary to wonder what they are; we only know that they are sweet and soothing. All around, are rows of trees; under them, here and there, are benches bidding us rest, an invitation we gratefully accept. It is the most natural thing in the world to do; so we give ourselves up to the enjoyment of the scene. Such silence is golden; in it, nature reveals volumes by her glowing yet dainty colors, set in a framework of dense foliage.

The Parade is a wide street, with double rows of lovely trees. Three of these are pointed out as being in the center of England. They are girded by iron fences. They are centuries old. Reverently, we gaze on them. Around them, little children are playing, and we wonder how many generations have thus enjoyed the shade cast by their wide-spreading branches. Their leaves seem to dance in merriment with the children's rippling laughter, or shiver when funeral knells are sounded through them. They seem to

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