“Come along, girls; let’s be off,” cried Stephen, who at heart was almost a Gypsy, and loved a long tramp through the woods. He had strapped over his shoulder a goodly sized box of lunch, and the cavalcade started cheerfully down the walk that led toward the forest, a compact mass of foliage lying to the left of them.
“Isn’t this fun?” demanded Jimmie. “I feel just in the humor for a lark.”
“I hope you can climb fences, girls,” called Stephen over his shoulder, as he trudged along, ahead of the others.
“We could even climb a tree if we had to,” answered Bab, “or swim a creek.”
“Or ride a horse bareback,” interrupted Jimmie, who had heard the story of Bab’s escapade on the road to Newport.
“This is the end of uncle’s land,” said Stephen, at last. “We now find ourselves entering the black forest. Here’s the trail,” he called as the others helped the two girls over the dividing fence.
“All right, Scout Stephen,” replied Jimmie. “We are following close behind. Proceed with the march.”
Sure enough, there was a distinct road leading straight into the forest, formed by ruts from cartwheels, probably the carts of the woodcutters, Stephen explained. The edges of the wood were rather thin and scant, like the meagre fringe on a man’s head just beginning to turn bald at the temples; but as they marched deeper into the forest, the trees grew so thickly that their branches overhead formed a canopy like a roof. Squirrels and chipmunks scampered across their path and occasionally a rabbit could be seen scurrying through the underbrush.
“Isn’t this great!” exclaimed Stephen, after they had been walking for some time. “Uncle says there’s scarcely such another wood in this part of the country.”
“Don’t speak so loud, Stephen,” said Jimmie. “It is so quiet here, I feel as if we would wake something, if we spoke above a whisper.”