ed to take it out. No, I can't fish with a
frog."

"But you would catch a bass, and you know that it must hurt him--in
fact, you know that it's generally fatal."

"Yes, but it's his rapacity that gets him into trouble. I don't
believe they're going to bite. Suppose we go over yonder and wallow
under that tree."

"All right. I don't care to catch a fish now anyway. It would be a
disturbance to pull him out. Our trip has already paid us a large
profit. With one exception it has been more than a year since I have
seen anything outside of that monstrous town. As long as the spirit of
the child remains with the man, he loves the country. All children are
fond of the woods--the deep shade holds a mystery."

They lay on the thick grass under an oak. On one side of the tree was
an old scar, made with an axe, and Henry, pointing to the scar, said:
"To cut down this tree was once the task assigned some lusty young
fellow, but just as he had begun his work, a neighbor came along and
told him that his strong arm was needed by his country; and he put
down his axe and took up a gun."

"That may be," Richmond replied, "Many a hero has sprung from this
land; these meadows have many times been mowed by men who went away
to reap and who were reaped at Gettysburg."

After a time they went out in the boat again, and were on the water
when the sun lost its splendor and, hanging low, fired the distant
wood-top. And now there was a hush as if all the universe waited for
the dozing day to sink into sounder sleep. The sun went down, a bird
screamed, and nature began her evening hum.

In the darkness they lost the path that led through the woods. They
made an adventure of this, and pretended that they might not find
their way out until morning. They wandered about in a laughing
aimlessness, and there was a tone of disappointment in Richmond's
voice when he halted and said, "Here's the road."

They went to bed in the farmer's spare room, where the subscription
book, flashing without and dull within, lay on the center table. A
plaster-of-paris kitten, once the idol of a child whose son now
doubtless lay in a national burial-ground, looked down from the
mantel-piece. There was the frail rocking-chair that was never
intended to be sat in, and on the wall, in an acorn-studded frame, was
a faded picture entitled "The Return of the Prodigal."

Richmond was sinking to sleep when Henry called him.

"What is it?"

"I didn't know you were as