A Connecticut Yankee In King Arthur's Court

Camelot-Camelot said I to myself. I don't seem to remember hearing of it before. Name of the asylum likely. It was a soft reposeful summer landscape as lovely as a dream and as lonesome as Sunday. The air was full of the smell of flowers and the buzzing of insects and the twittering of birds and there were no people no wagons there was no stir of life nothing going on. The road was mainly a winding path with hoof-prints in it and now and then a faint trace of wheels on either side in the grass-wheels that apparently had a tire as broad as one's hand.