“Yes, George, the lake!”
George shouted “hurrah” and flung his hat in the air. Honey-Bee was too proper to fling hers up also, so taking off the shoe that wouldn’t stay on she threw it joyfully over her head.
There lay the lake in the depths of the valley and its curved and sloping banks made a framework of foliage and flowers about its silver waves. It lay there clear and tranquil, and one could see the swaying of the indistinct green of its banks.
But the children could find no path through the underbrush that would lead to its beautiful waters.
While they were searching for one their legs were nipped by some geese driven by a little girl dressed in a sheepskin and carrying a switch. George asked her name.
“Gilberte.”
“Well, then, Gilberte, how can one go to the lake?”
“Folks doesn’t go.”
“Why?”
“Because...”