“Good-bye, Peter, if you won’t come,” “Good-bye, Peter, if you won’t come,” we cried.
“My bumps!” shouted Peter.
So we waved him a laughing “Adieu!” and went cantering off.
“As the frost is so hard and the day so fine,” I said to Jill, “I think we’re sure to find some feathers on the lake, for it seldom if ever freezes.”
“We’re sure to, Jack. And won’t we look fine, clattering into camp to-night with the ducks and the geese all dangling to our saddles.”
“Peter will be jealous.”
“Poor Peter! it’s a pity he can’t ride better.”
So on we trotted, talking and laughing right merrily. Presently Jill said—
“Sing, Jack; I can give you a bit of a bass.”
I did sing, a rattling old saddle-song that I had learned at the Cape. Jill joined in, the horses’ feet kept excellent time, and the very dogs barked with glee as they went galloping on in front.