he--"the very spot--pull away, my
lads--but dear me" continued he, as they neared the intended
landing-place, "What have we here? What says the board?"

"PARTIES ARE NOT, ALLOWED TO
LAND AND DINE HERE"

Oh! oh! very well; then we'll only land here, and dine a little further
on."

"What a repulsive board"--cried the young lady--"I declare now I'm quite
vex'd"--

"Never mind, Julia, we won't be bored by any board"--said the jocose old
gentleman.

"I'm sure, uncle"--said one of the youths--"we don't require any board,
for we provide ourselves."

"You're quite right, Master Dickey," said his uncle; "for we only came
out for a lark, you know, and no lark requires more than a little turf
for its entertainment; pull close to the bank, and let us land."

"Oh! but suppose," said the timid Julia, "the surly owner should pounce
upon us, just as we are taking our wine?"

"Why then, my love," replied he, "we have only to abandon our wine, and,
like sober members of the Temperance Society--take water."

Pulling the wherry close along side the grassy bank, and fastening it
carefully to the stump of an old tree, the whole party landed.

"How soft and beautiful is the green-sward here," said the romantic
Julia, indenting the yielding grass with her kid-covered tiny feet; "Does
not a gentleman of the name of Nimrod sing the pleasure of the Turf?"
said Emma: "I wonder if he ever felt it as we do?"

"Certainly not," replied Master Dickey, winking at his uncle; "for the
blades of the Turf he describes, are neither so fresh nor so green as
these; and the 'stakes' he mentions are rather different from those
contained in our pigeon-pie."

"But I doubt, Dickey," said his uncle, "if his pen ever described a
better race than the present company. The Jenkins's, let me tell you,
come of a good stock, and sport some of the best blood in the country."

"Beautiful branches of a noble tree," exclaimed Master Dicky, "but,
uncle, a hard row has made me rather peckish; let us spread the
provender. I think there's an honest hand of pork yonder that is right
worthy of a friendly grasp;--only see if, by a single touch of that
magical hand, I'm not speedily transformed into a boat."

"What sort of a boat?" cried Julia. "A cutter, to be sure," replied
Master Dicky, and laughing he ran off with his male companions to bring
the provisions ashore.

Meanwhile the uncle and his niece selected a level spot beneath the
umbrageous trees, and pr