Slacken
your sheet, Peggy! easy--that's right! a half-hitch--look here, young
lady! I believe you have been humbugging us all; don't tell me you never
sailed a boat before!"

"Never in all my life!" said Peggy, looking up joyously. "I have only
dreamed of it and thought about it, ever since I can remember. And I
have read the 'Seaman's Friend,' and 'Two Years Before the Mast,' so I
do know a little bit about how things ought to go. I think every girl
ought to learn how to sail a boat, if she possibly can; but out on the
ranch, you see, there really wasn't any chance. We could only make
believe, but we used to have great fun doing that."

"How did you make your believe? I should like to hear about it. Ease her
off a bit--so--as you are!"

"Why, we made a boat out of the great swing in the barn. It is a huge
barn, and the swing is big enough for three elephants to swing on at
once; and Hugh fastened hammocks along it lengthwise, and then rigged
ropes and pulleys for us, and an old canvas hammock with the ends cut
off for a sail; so we swung, and called it sailing, and had storms and
shipwrecks, and all kinds of adventures. It was great fun. Oh, I do wish
some of you could come out to the ranch some day. If there was only
water, it would be the best place in the world--except this and
Fernley."

"I'm coming some day!" said Phil. "See if I don't. It must be corking
sport, riding about over those great plains."

"Oh! it is!" cried Peggy. "When you come, Phil, you shall ride Monte. He
is the most beautiful creature, a Spanish jennet. Jack Del Monte sent
him to brother Jim, but he isn't up to Jim's weight, so he lets me ride
him. He is like the horses in poetry, that is the only way I can
describe him; white as milk, with great dark eyes, and graceful--oh, I
_do_ want you to see him. No horse in poetry was ever half so beautiful;
in fact, I think I take back what I said; I don't really think poets
know much about horses; do you?"

"'Zebra-footed, ostrich-thighed,'" quoted Phil, laughing.

"I know!" said Peggy, indignantly. "Now, the idea, Phil! one thinks of a
poor dear horse all over ostrich feathers behind, which is dreadful. But
then, I don't understand poetry, except about battles, Macaulay and
Scott. Don't you love 'Marmion'?"

"Indeed I do!" said Phil, heartily. "Hi!"

This last brief exclamation was made in a tone of some concern.

"What is it?" asked Peggy. "Am I trimming wrong?"

"Right as a trivet! but-