Hurrah! Hurrah! only two days more to vacation, and then!----

If the crowning whistle, and energetic _bang_ with which the strapped books came down, were any indication of what was coming after the "then!" it must be something unusual. And so it was--for Ned, Tom and Con, who were the greatest of chums, as well as the noisiest, merriest boys in Curryville Academy--were to go into camp for the next two weeks, by way of spending part of their vacation. They could hardly wait for school to close, and over the pages of Greenleaf danced, those last two days, unknown quant.i.ties of fishing tackle, tents, and the regular regalia of a camping out-fit. They talked of it by day and dreamed of it by night.

At last the great day dawned--dawned upon three of the most grotesque-looking specimens of boyhood, arrayed in the oldest and worst fitting clothes they could find; for, as they said, in the most expressive boy language--"We are in for a rattlin' good time, and don't want to be togged out." They and their effects were taken by wagon over to the Lake Sh.o.r.e, about four miles distant, to establish their camp under the shadow of old Rumble Sides, a lofty crag or boulder.

Boys, I wish you could have seen them that night, in their little woodland home; really, it was quite attractive. They worked like beavers all day--cutting away the brush, driving stakes to tie down the little white tent, digging a trench all around in case of rain, and building a fire-place of stone, with a tall, forked stick on which to hang the kettle. A long board, under the shady trees, served as table.

Too tired to make a fire that night, they ate a cold lunch, and threw themselves on their bed--which was a blanket thrown over pine boughs--untied the tent flaps to let in air, and slept a happy, dreamless sleep.

The next morning, early, they were up, and, after taking a cold plunge in the lake, built a brisk fire, boiled coffee, and roasted potatoes for breakfast. They then bailed out the punt, which was their only sailing craft, and put off for an all-day's fishing excursion. Several days, with fine weather, pa.s.sed, and the boys declared they were having a royal time, and that camping was the only life to lead.

They had much difficulty to settle upon a name, but finally decided that "Camp Trio" was most appropriate.

One night they were suddenly awakened by a deep, roaring sound; the wind blew fiercely, it rained hard, but the noise was not of thunder, it seemed almost human; nearer and nearer it came! The three lads sat up in the semi-darkness, and peered at each other with scared faces.

"It's Old Rumble broke loose and coming down on us," said Con, in a ghostly whisper. "Hush!" and the trio clutched in a cold shiver, as a crackling of twigs was heard outside, a heavy tread, a long, low moan, a horrible silence.

"It was the Leviathan, I guess," said Tom, with a ghastly attempt at smiling, as the early morning light stole through the flaps. At length they moved their stiffened limbs and peeped out. Oh, how it did pour!

No fire, no fishing, no any thing to-day. Pretty soon a shout from Ned, who had been cautiously prowling around to find the cause of their late fright.

"Oh, boys, it's too rich! Why, it was Potter's old cow, down here last night, bawling for her calf that was after our towels, as usual--look here!" and he held up three or four dingy, chewed-looking articles, which had hung on a tree to dry, and might have been towels once. The boys broke into a hearty laugh at their own expense. The day was very long and dull, and the next, stories and jokes fell flat, cold victuals didn't relish, they began to feel quite blue. The third day Farmer Potter appeared upon the scene.

"What on airth ye doin' here; trespa.s.sin' on other folks' grounds?

Mebby ye don't know it's agin the law!"

The boys felt a trifle uneasy, but answered him politely.

"Hevin' _fun_, be ye! Wall, I'll vow, settin' in the wet, eatin' cold rations, haint _my_ idee of _fun_." And away he stalked.

The boys looked at each other.

"I say, fellers," said Con, "a piece of pie and a hunk of fresh bread _wouldn't_ go bad--eh?"

The two answered with a hungry look.

"But let's tough it out over Sunday, or they'll all laugh at us." And so they did; but it was the longest, dreariest Sabbath they ever spent.

"I'd rather learn ten chapters in Chronicles," Tom affirmed, "than put in another such a Sunday."

They had, in the main, a jolly time, but the ending was not as brilliant as they had looked for. They never regretted going, but the next year took a larger party, and went for a shorter time.

THE SENTIMENTAL FOX.

"Oh, beautiful wild duck, it pains me to see, You flying aloft in that gone sort of way, Sweet one, fare you well. I could shed many tears, But my deepest emotions I never betray.

"I've always admired you, wonderful bird, By the light of the sun and the rays of the moon; I tell you 'tis more than a fox can endure, To know that you take your departure so soon.

"I s.n.a.t.c.hed a few feathers, in memory of you; I desired a whole wing, but you baffled my plan; Oh, what a memento to hang in my den!

And in very hot weather to use as a fan.

"Descend, O, thou beautiful creature, to earth!

There's nothing I would not perform for your sake; If once in awhile I could see you down here, I'd never get tired of the sh.o.r.es of this lake!"

"Cheer up, Mr. Fox," said the duck, flying higher, "The parting of such friends is sometimes a boon; When they get far away, and have time to reflect, They see that it came not a moment too soon.

"You wanted a wild wing to fan yourself with; You see if I granted that favor to you, 'Twould have left me but one, which is hardly enough, As I find it convenient, just now, to have two."

Then she faded away, a dark speck on the sky.

"That's a very shrewd bird," said the fox in dismay!

"I shall have to look round for my dinner, again, And I fancy it will not be wild duck to-day."

EARTHEN VESSELS.

Spring time had come, with its blossoms and birds; and Mrs. Rossiter threw up the sash of the east window, and pushed open the blinds, and drew a long deep breath of morning air, and morning sunshine.

"I think, Bridget," she said, "that we might venture to bring the house-plants out-doors to-day. There can hardly be another frost, this year."

"Oh! may I help?" asked little Charley, "I'll be very careful."

"On that condition, that you be very careful, you may bring the little ones," answered his mother.

The work progressed safely and rapidly for awhile. Geraniums, roses, fuchsias, heliotropes, and so following, came forth in profusion, many in bloom, and were placed in rows along the garden borders, ready to be transferred to the beds, for the summer. At last the little ones were all brought by Charley, and only larger ones remained.

"I'll carry just this one big one," he said to himself: "I'm stronger than mother thinks I am." But the pot full of earth, was heavier than Charley had thought it, and before he reached the place to set it down it had grown very heavy indeed; and, glad to get it out of his aching arms as quickly as possible, he placed it on the curb so suddenly, that with a loud crash it parted in the middle and lay in pieces at his feet. Glancing quickly at his mother and seeing in her face impending reproach, he forestalled it by exclaiming:

"Well, that pot broke itself very easily. What's it made of, any how?"

The mother couldn't help but smile at this attempted shifting of the blame to the pot, but she answered, in a moment, gravely:

"The pot, Charley, was made of clay; the same weak material from which little boys are made; who, when they forget to obey their mothers, are as likely to meet disaster as the earthen pot."

Charley didn't care just then to discuss disobedient boys, so he turned at once to the subject of the pot.

"Made of clay," he exclaimed, "well, I'd like to see a man make a thing like that of clay."

"And so would I," said sister Mary, who, from an upper window, had listened to the conversation.

"And so you shall, if I have no further reminders of this sort, that my children are made of the same unreliable material."

That afternoon, the three, started for the pottery works. Mr. Sands, the proprietor, kindly received them, and fully explained all his processes. First he pointed out what seemed to Charley a heap of dry hard common dirt; taking a little piece of this he dipped it into a basin of water and then squeezing and pressing it in his hand it soon became soft, and plastic, so that it could be wrought to any shape. He then led the party to another room where a young man was engaged in thus softening large ma.s.ses. He would first crumble the hard earth into fine pieces; then wet and pack it together into a "loaf," so Charley called it, and then raising it over his head throw it again with all his might upon the table before him until it became soft and smooth through all its bulk. This, Mr. Sands said, was called "wedging the clay," and that it was now ready for "throwing" into shape.