To undress and plunge head foremost into deep water did not take Barclay long. I believe he startled the lazy but beautiful jelly-fish that kicked and floated about here in dozens. More than once, while having this splendid morning bath, some huge monster had got its tentacles round his ankles. The stinging sensation was terrible, and far worse than nettles, but that did not prevent him from diving again next morning just the same; for Barclay Stuart was one of those boys that are not to be denied.
On this particular morning, after a good long swim straight out seaward and back, he clambered once more on top of weed-covered rock and quickly dressed, then ran home to breakfast.
He could not, however, help pausing now and then to listen to the gurgling notes of the sweetest singer that visits our shores in spring—the nightingale.
I have often wondered who taught that little bird to sing so enchantingly. Who but God?
Barclay knew of several of their nests, but he would not have robbed them on any account. Mind you, Barclay loved Nature, but I would not like to give you the impression that he was what is called a goody-goody boy, because he wasn’t. He was just as plucky in a good cause as any boy need be. I’ll give you an instance.
One day he was wandering in the woods, when he met a boy two years older than himself, and bigger also. He was marching off with some thrush’s eggs from a small spruce-tree. Barclay Stuart confronted him.
“I had that nest before you,” he said, clenching his fists, and holding his arms straight down by his sides.
“And why didn’t you take the eggs then? You are a noodle.”
“Because I didn’t want to. Put back the eggs, or I’ll be obliged to give you a hiding.”
The other boy laughed derisively.