“Now she will be cooler,” said Mary delightedly. “I am so glad she went in.”
After leaving the little river, we went up a hill past more houses, and then to my surprise came another river, this one also with a pretty iron bridge over it.
Mona and Dolly went into this river too, and Mary and the farmer laughed heartily to see their two heads above the running stream.
I am trying to think how many rivers and streams we passed. I like to be a truthful little cat, even to myself. It was the same lovely thing, over and over—farm-houses, orchards, strips of woodland, streams, and beautiful green meadows.
“Do you like those meadows, sissy?” the farmer said to Mary.
“Oh! they are lovely,” she replied in a low voice. “I am thinking of the Bible. Don't you remember where the Jews sat down by the rivers of Babylon, and hung their harps on the willow-trees?”
“And wept because they remembered Zion,” said the farmer in his genial voice. “Yes, sissy, I remember. They wept because they were in a strange land, but we should weep if the Lord should take us away from our meadows. That rich low land is a great thing for our farms. It does not require fertilizing,” and then he went on to explain how the streams and rivers brought down the fertile soil from the high Green Hills and deposited it on the valley.
“And the meadow grass makes hay for the horses, does it?” said Mary with interest. “That is nice to know; and now, Mr. Gleason, will you please tell me what you call these handsome horses of yours?” and she pointed to the fine pair of brown animals that were drawing us so swiftly along.
“I call them Glory and Dungeon,” replied the farmer, and his eyes twinkled.
“Glory and Dungeon,” she repeated in rather a mystified tone. “What queer names. What do they mean?”