Stratford is just another village of Niagara Falls.
I was at Stratford four days and went just four times to the old curiosity-shop.
It is eight miles from Warwick to Stratford by the direct road, but ten by the river.
And again they came back when Will Shakespeare, a youth from Stratford, eight miles away, came here and waved his magic wand.
The first glimpse we get of Stratford is the spire of Holy Trinity; then comes the tower of the new Memorial Theater, which, by the way, is exactly like the city hall at Dead Horse, Colorado.
Under certain circumstances, if occasion demands, I might muster a sublime conceit; but considering the fact that ten thousand Americans visit Stratford every year, and all write descriptions of the place, I dare not in the face of Baedeker do it.
Down toward Stratford there are flat islands covered with sedge, long rows of weeping-willows, low hazel, hawthorn, and places where "Green Grow the Rushes, O." Then, if the farmer leaves a spot untilled, the dogrose pre-empts the place and showers its petals on the vagrant winds.