The whole house was filled with the pleasant bustle of preparation. Mr. Merrithew was as much of a boy, in the matter of high spirits, as the youngest of the party. Mrs. Merrithew, blithe and serene, had everything perfectly planned, and engineered the carrying out of the plans with quiet skill. It was she who remembered where everything was, thought of everything that ought to be taken, and saw that every one of the party was properly clad. The party, by the way, was quite a large one, consisting of another whole family (the Greys) besides the Merrithews, Will Graham, a young collegian who was a friend of Mr. Merrithew's, and Miss Covert, a rather delicate and very quiet little school-teacher whom Mrs. Merrithew had taken under her wing from sheer kindness, but who proved a charming addition to the party. The Greys were six in number: Doctor Grey, a grave professor; Mrs. Grey, a tiny, vivacious brunette, who had been Mrs. Merrithew's "chum" since their schoolgirl days; Carl and Hugh, twin boys of fourteen; and two girls, Edith, just Jackie's age, and Alice, so much older than the rest that she was "almost grown-up," and Marjorie and Dora looked upon her with admiring awe.
Doctor Grey, both mammas, Susan (who was to do the cooking, as Debby did not dare venture on anything so wild as sleeping out-of-doors), Jackie, little Edith Grey, and all the provisions, tents, and bedding, were to go by stage, while Mr. Merrithew, Will Graham, and the twins were to divide the charge of three canoes and the four girls.
At ten o'clock the big lumbering stage rattled up to the door, and the canoeists saw the others properly packed and waved them a cheerful adieu. Then they gathered up paddles, wraps, and lunch-baskets, and hastened gaily off to the boat-house on the river-bank. Here the work of embarking was quickly accomplished, and the four slender birches shot out into the stream, turned, and swept upward, propelled against the current by vigorous arms.
"Please sing, Daddy," Marjorie begged, and Mr. Merrithew promptly began an old favourite, but could get no further than the first verse.
"In the days when we went gypsying,
A long time ago,
The lads and lasses in their best
Were dressed from top to toe—"
So far he sang, and then declared that both memory and breath had given out, and that the ladies, who had no work to do, must forthwith provide the music. After a little hesitation and some coaxing from Marjorie, Dora sang, in a clear, sweet treble, the well-known and much-loved "En Roulant ma Boule" ("Rolling My Ball"). Then some one started "Tenting on the Old Camp Ground," and all, even the paddlers, joined in, the little school-teacher providing a rich alto that took them all by surprise.
"THE TREE-CLAD SHORES WORE A FAIRY GLAMOUR"
The river was deep-blue, reflecting the little clouds that floated in the azure overhead. Near the town the river was very broad; as they forged upward, it gradually narrowed, and was thickly studded with islands. They passed Government House, left the ruined Hermitage behind, and then began to feel that they were at last out of civilization, and nearing the goal of summer quiet that they sought. It was slow work, this paddling against the current, but the time went in a sort of enchanted way; the tree-clad shores wore a fairy glamour, and the islands, where masses of grape-vine and clematis were tangled over the bushes, might have been each the home of an enchanted princess, a dryad, or any of the many "fair forms of old romance." When about five miles had been covered, they heard the rush of water hurrying over shallows and nagging at the rocks. This was what the children delighted to call "The Rapids," but old canoemen simply dubbed it "a stretch of swift water." But by whichever name it went, it called for strong and skilful paddling, and Mr. Merrithew proposed that, before they undertook it, they should land and fortify themselves with lunch. This suggestion met with great favour; the canoes were swiftly beached, and soon a merry little picnic party sat under a clump of gray shore-willows, while sandwiches, tarts, and cakes of many kinds, vanished as if by magic. Success to the camp was drunk in lemonade—not ice-cold—and speeches were made that proved the good spirits, if not the oratorical gifts, of the group.