They were at the water’s edge, and the ponies gratefully put their heads down for a drink of the cool stream that clattered and danced over its stony bed. After they had finished, Jim led the way through the water, which was only deep enough to wash the ponies’ knees. When they had climbed the opposite bank, a wide, grassy plain stretched before them.
“We cut across here,” Norah explained, “and pick up the creek over there—that saves a good deal.”
“Does Billy know this cut?” Harry queried.
“What doesn’t Billy know?” Norah laughed. “Come along.”
They cantered slowly over the grass, remembering that Jim was scarcely fit yet for violent exercise, though he stoutly averred that his accident had left no traces whatever. The sun was getting high and it was hot, away from the cool shade near the creek. Twice a hare bounded off in the grass, and once Harry jumped off hurriedly and killed a big brown snake that was lazily sunning itself upon a broad log.
“I do hate those beasts!” he said, remounting. Norah had held his pony for him.
“So do I,” she nodded; “only one gets used to them. Father found one on his pillow the other night.”
“By George!” Harry said. “Did he kill it?”
“Yes, rather. They are pretty thick here, especially a bit earlier than this. One got into the kitchen through the window, by the big vine that grows outside, and when Mrs. Brown pulled down the blind it came, too—it was on the roller. That was last Christmas, and Mrs. Brown says she’s shaking still!”
“Snakes are rummy things,” Harry observed. “Ever hear that you can charm them with music?”