180 ON THE UPPER ST. JOHN’S. 
Farther along, in the highway, —a sandy 
track, with wastes of scrub on either side, — 
a boy of eight or nine, armed with a double- 
barreled gun, was lingering about a patch 
of dwarf oaks and palmettos. “ Have n’t 
got that rabbit yet, eh?” said I. (1 had 
passed him there on my way out, and he 
had told me what he was after.) 
“No, sir,” he answered. 
‘“‘T don’t believe there ’s any rabbit there.” 
“Yes, there is, sir; I saw one a little 
while ago, but he got away before I could 
get pretty near.” 
“Good!” I thought. “ Here is a gram- 
marian. Not one boy in ten in this country 
but would have said ‘I seen.’”” A scholar 
like this was worth talking with. “ Are 
there many rabbits here?” I asked. 
“Yes, sir, there ’s a good deal.” 
And so, by easy mental stages, I was 
clear of the swamp and back in the town, 
—saved from the horrible, and delivered 
to the commonplace and the dreary. 
My best days in Sanford were two that I 
spent on the river above the lake. A youth- 
ful boatman, expert alike with the oar and 
the gun, served me faithfully and well, 
