“Maybe we’d better try to get back on time,” said Hugh.
“Squealer!” Nick, in the stern, reproachfully splashed Hugh’s back. “There’s no fun picnicking if you have to go home right away and eat another meal.”
“Oh, all right, old chap,” agreed Hugh. “Only don’t throw any more water down my neck. It’s beastly cold.”
There was silence then for a few minutes while the two canoes passed leisurely down the winding stream, side by side. Westward, the sun was dropping close to the greening summit of the low hills and the April day was almost at its end. There was a perceptible chill in the little breeze that crept across the meadows and made catspaws on the quiet surface of the water. Early blackbirds were fluttering along the banks ahead of the canoes, uttering their creaky notes and simulating wild alarm. A fish leaped after a reckless insect and fell back with a startling splash, sending widening circles away in the amber glow. They didn’t paddle much, for there was enough current to bear them along. Jimmy frankly shipped his blade and watched the drops trickle. Nick’s voice came across the few yards of water.
“Somebody will please say some poetry,” he requested.
“‘Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds.
“‘Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower