We were destined to have another experience with the car that day before we reached our destination. As we drew near Shrewsbury there was a sharp shower, which, though it did not last many minutes, was enough to make the roads rather greasy. As we had, however, such a short distance to go, it did not seem worth while to put on the chains. As we drove along the main street I was very careful, fearing we might skid. There is a tramway running through the street, which did not make things easier, for the rails were wet and shining in the rain. The street is lined with trees, and on one side is a high brick wall. My subconscious mind was noting all these things and perhaps allowing me to drive a little faster than I had intended, when suddenly the car, as if it were possessed of a devil, shot from the track to the sidewalk, passing between two trees, grazing the wall, and was back again on the rails before one could say "Jack Robinson," or even the English equivalent, "Knife"! It was not the rear wheels which had slipped but the front ones! No one had ever told me that could happen, nor should I have known how to guard against it if they had. Was it not fortunate that it was the tea hour that the car chose for this little side-trip? All the tradespeople were in the back rooms behind their shops, and the street was almost deserted. I trembled to think what might have happened had children been on their way to or from school, or feeble folk had failed to jump like grasshoppers! I never was more thankful than when I turned the motor into the garage of the "Raven." Our first business in Shrewsbury was, of course, to visit the battle-field. I reminded Ruth as we drove out of the town the following morning of a saying of yours: that the best investment any nation or town could make was to breed a genius! "Sir Walter Scott," you said, "had brought more money to Scotland than all the ship-building on the Clyde, and that the money spent each year in Marseilles, by men and women who came from all over the world to look at the Château d'If, and speculate as to which side of it a man, who had never lived, had escaped could not be counted for multitude!" It is the same here. What a triumph of the imagination it is that after four hundred years pilgrims should still be wending their way to the field of Shrewsbury, as many were doing that morning! Not because it was historical--as the French say--"they mock themselves well of that." It is Shakespeare who is the Pied Piper that led us all to the spot where Harry Monmouth and Hotspur fought indeed, but where Falstaff bore off the honors of the day!