A merry holiday party, forming a tolerable boat-load, and well provided with baskets of provisions, were rowing along the beautiful and picturesque banks that fringe the river's side near Twickenham, eagerly looking out for a spot where they might enjoy their "pic-nic" to perfection.
"O! uncle, there's a romantic glade;—do let us land there!" exclaimed a beautiful girl of eighteen summers, to a respectable old gentleman in a broad brimmed beaver and spectacles.
"Just the thing, I declare," replied he—"the very spot—pull away, my lads—but dear me" continued he, as they neared the intended landing-place, "What have we here? What says the board?"
"PARTIES ARE NOT, ALLOWED TO
LAND AND DINE HERE"
Oh! oh! very well; then we'll only land here, and dine a little further on"
"What a repulsive board"—cried the young lady—"I declare now I'm quite vex'd"—
"Never mind, Julia, we won't be bored by any board"—said the jocose old gentleman.
"I'm sure, uncle"—said one of the youths—"we don't require any board, for we provide ourselves."
"You're quite right, Master Dickey," said his uncle; "for we only came out for a lark, you know, and no lark requires more than a little turf for its entertainment; pull close to the bank, and let us land."
"Oh! but suppose," said the timid Julia, "the surly owner should pounce upon us, just as we are taking our wine?"