14 DAYS IN THE OPEN 



when it pulled at the heart of the lad on that long- 

 ago summer day. It is the voice of the brook. It 

 gurgles and laughs and pleads. It says, " Ha ! ha ! 

 ha ! Isn't this a beautiful world, and this the finest 

 day ever? Come on, little boy, and play in my 

 ripples. I've some nice peppermint growing on my 

 banks, and all sorts of pretty pebbles that I have 

 washed for you. Look sharp, now! Do you see 

 that trout lying at the head of the riffle ? Do you 

 know that I counted thirty-seven as big as he is 

 between the bridge and the Deer Pond? Come 

 and catch 'em ! " 



That brook was a part, and a large one, of the 

 first permanent impressions made upon the boy's 

 mind. It had its rise in a little pond, concerning 

 which there was the usual dark legend that it had 

 no bottom. Just what held up the water was a 

 mystery, but the boy never doubted the legend. 

 It was fed by numerous springs. Vigorous and 

 noisy from the moment when it broke forth from 

 its source, the brook was ten miles of silvery 

 laughter. 



" If you'll not go out of sight of the house you 

 may go for an hour," says the mother, for she too 

 has ears to hear the call of the brook and can 

 understand its charm for her lad. " Just up in the 

 pasture-lot above the bridge," calls back the boy, 

 and starts off with his pole and a supply of angle- 

 worms wrapped up in paper. Take special no- 

 tice of that pole, for it is the joy of the boy's heart. 



