A MOUNTAIN POND 87 



ers yi a city slum ; and at the very worst the 

 children have a royal playground. 



Mountain boys, certainly, I could never 

 much pity ; for the girls it was impossible 

 not to wish easier and more generous condi- 

 tions. Here at Stewart's Pond I detained 

 two of them for a minute's talk : sisters, I 

 judged, the taller one ten years old, or there- 

 about. I asked them if there were many 

 fish in the pond. The older one thought 

 there were. " I know my daddy ketched 

 five hundred and put in there for Mr. Stew- 

 art," she said. Just then the younger girl 

 pulled her sister's sleeve and pointed toward 

 two snakes which lay sunning themselves on 

 the edge of the water, where a much larger 

 one had shortly before slipped off a log into 

 the pond at my approach. " They do no 

 harm ? " said I. " No, sir, I don't guess 

 they do," was the answer ; a strange-sound- 

 ing form of speech, though it is exactly like 

 the " I don't think so " of which we all con- 

 tinue to make hourly use, no matter how 

 often some crotchety amateur grammarian — 

 for whom logic is logic, and who hates idiom 

 as a mad dog hates water — may write to the 

 newspapers warning us of its impropriety. 



