imby and Celeste!"

"Oh! I--I am not, I assure you! I am not in the least, you know!"
protested Quimby, taking a roll on the log; "never felt less so in my
life."

"Why, Ralfy!" exclaimed Celeste, reproachfully, and to his distress went
up close to him, and would have sat down by his side, but for the
uncontrollable rolling propensity of that log, which made it impossible.

"How is it with you, Jo?" queried Cyn; "can you not for once, forget
your horrible hobby, and be a little sentimental, in honor of the day?"

Jo, who was throwing sticks into the water, to the great disturbance of
the bugs, and plainly-shown annoyance of a big frog, made a somewhat
surprising reply. Decidedly seriously, he said,

"I fear if I should attempt it, I might get too much in earnest!"

"Oh! we will risk that, so please begin!" said Cyn, but staring at him a
little as she spoke. "Jo, sentimental! Just imagine it!"

"Will you risk it?" he asked still seriously, and with so peculiar an
expression that she could reply only by another astonished stare.

"But really, it does not pay to be sentimental, as you all ought to have
found out long ago! as Jo and I have!" Nattie said, jestingly, yet with
an undertone of earnestness.

"Then," said Clem, dryly, "since it is so with us, let us fish!" and he
threw his line into the stream.

Cyn, Jo, and Mrs. Simonson followed his example. Quimby declined joining
in the sport, and perhaps, likening himself to the fish, balanced
himself on the log, and looked on with a pathetic face. Celeste, as in
duty bound, remained by his side. Nattie, too, was an observer only, and
from the expression off her face was decidedly not amused.

"I think it is cruel!" she exclaimed, as Jo took a fish off Cyn's hook.

"I--I quite agree with you!" Quimby replied quickly, in answer to
Nattie's observation. "It is cruel!"

"But perhaps the fish were made for people to catch," suggested the
pacific Mrs. Simonson, who had not yet been able to get a bite.

"Yes," acquiesced Clem, pulling up a skinny little fish. "They are no
worse off than we poor mortals after all. We must each fulfill our
destiny, whether man or fish."

"Yes! it is all fate!" exclaimed Quimby vehemently. "We cannot help
ourselves!"

"You believe in fate then? I don't think I do!" said Cyn, with a glance
half-humorous, half-pitying, at its victim on the log; "what incentive
would we have to any effort, if we were sure everything was marked out
for