beautiful gloves, for which I
paid a dollar at Mr. Dawson's in Cragthorpe. After you have found a
shady place for your provisions, I would like you to look for a spring.
I am very thirsty."

"Find the spring yourself, Miss," said her father. "Mr. Locksley and I
have a spring in this basket. Take a pull, Sir."

And the Captain drew forth a stout black bottle.

"Give me a cup, and I will look for some water," said Miss Blunt "Only
I'm so afraid of the snakes! If you hear a scream, you may know it's a
snake."

"Screaming snakes!" said I; "that's a new species."

What nonsense it all sounds like now! As we looked about us, shade
seemed scarce, as it generally is, in this region. But Miss Blunt, like
the very adroit and practical young person she is, for all that she
would have me believe the contrary, soon discovered a capital cool
spring in the shelter of a pleasant little dell, beneath a clump of
firs. Hither, as one of the young gentlemen who imitate Tennyson would
say, we brought our basket, Blunt and I; while Esther dipped the cup,
and held it dripping to our thirsty lips, and laid the cloth, and on the
grass disposed the platters round. I should have to be a poet, indeed,
to describe half the happiness and the silly poetry and purity and
beauty of this bright long summer's day. We ate, drank, and talked; we
ate occasionally with our fingers, we drank out of the necks of our
bottles, and we talked with our mouths full, as befits (and excuses)
those who talk wild nonsense. We told stories without the least point.
Blunt and I made atrocious puns. I believe, indeed, that Miss Blunt
herself made one little punkin, as I called it. If there had been any
superfluous representative of humanity present, to register the fact, I
should say that we made fools of ourselves. But as there was no fool on
hand, I need say nothing about it. I am conscious myself of having said
several witty things, which Miss Blunt understood: _in vino veritas_.
The dear old Captain twanged the long bow indefatigably. The bright high
sun lingered above us the livelong day, and drowned the prospect with
light and warmth. One of these days I mean to paint a picture which in
future ages, when my dear native land shall boast a national school of
art, will hang in the _Salon Carre_ of the great central museum,
(located, let us say, in Chicago,) and remind folks--or rather make them
forget--Giorgione, Bordone, and Veronese; A Rural Festival; three
perso