In a few minutes we were all in the water,—all except Rob Currier, who, under threat of dire punishment, had been eternally charged by his mother to keep out of the water until he was a complete master of the art of swimming.
As he had not yet learned on land, he sat on the bank, threw pebbles at the cows, and from time to time remarked monotonously: "Oh, come on!"
The process of dressing was slow,—the use of towels, or any serious attempt to dry oneself, being tabooed as a sign of the most degrading effeminacy. When we were ready to depart, the position of the sun, and a hollow sensation in our interiors, showed beyond question that we must once more draw upon our commissariat.
Guided by three gaunt poplars, we advanced to the Devil's Den,—an ancient limestone quarry, which had some of the appearance, and many of the advantages, of a natural cave. Curious mineral substances were found there,—asbestos might be dug from the rock with a jack-knife, and green veins of serpentine decorated the side of the cliff.
It was a recognized spot for picnics, and we should have scarcely thought of eating our principal meal anywhere else. In the deepest part of the cleft was an unwholesome-looking puddle into which dripped the moisture from the roof of the cave. It was rather gloomy, and made visitors lower their voices a little, until they were in the sunlight once more.
We built a fire,—for what purpose it would be difficult to say, as sandwiches, cake, and fruit do not need a great deal of cooking, and the fish which we had captured had been left with old Mr. Harris, the railroad-crossing tender, to be claimed on our return trip.
It was pleasant, although a trifle hot and smoky on a warm day, to sit around a fire and refresh our wearied frames with food. Joe Carter had a clay pipe, and after he had eaten, tried the experiment of smoking dried leaves in it. He coughed a good deal, and did not seem to derive that joy from the process which we had all heard arose from the use of a pipe.
After a little time we set out once more, climbed to the top of Devil's Pulpit, and then took the road toward the Devil's Basin. In that region, the Devil seems to have had a large interest in the scenery. The road is of the pleasantest, however. Here, before the snow has hardly left the woods, the spring "peepers" sing insistently from a little bog, while, a few weeks later, the gentle blossoms of the hepatica emerge shyly from the dead leaves, and the anemone springs up on the hillside.
Now, although the tide of summer ebbed, the woods were crammed with things of interest. We investigated the Basin,—another deserted quarry. We explored the edges of the bog, and stalked a flock of crows who had gathered in the top of an oak. The afternoon passed at first pleasantly, but finally with some tedium,—the day seemed interminably long. Yet we grudged every moment, for we realized that the hours of vacation were numbered.
We rambled about till we became aware that we were very tired, that the day was waning, and that three or four long miles lay between us and home.