d the town was
our favorite haunt. There was a great green pond hidden somewhere in its
depths, inhabited by a monstrous colony of turtles. Harry Blake, who
had an eccentric passion for carving his name on everything, never let
a captured turtle slip through his fingers without leaving his mark
engraved on its shell. He must have lettered about two thousand from
first to last. We used to call them Harry Blake's sheep.

These turtles were of a discontented and migratory turn of mind, and we
frequently encountered two or three of them on the cross-roads several
miles from their ancestral mud. Unspeakable was our delight whenever we
discovered one soberly walking off with Harry Blake's initials! I've
no doubt there are, at this moment, fat ancient turtles wandering about
that gummy woodland with H.B. neatly cut on their venerable backs.

It soon became a custom among my playmates to make our barn their
rendezvous. Gypsy proved a strong attraction. Captain Nutter bought me a
little two-wheeled cart, which she drew quite nicely, after kicking out
the dasher and breaking the shafts once or twice. With our lunch-baskets
and fishing-tackle stowed away under the seat, we used to start off
early in the afternoon for the sea-shore, where there were countless
marvels in the shape of shells, mosses, and kelp. Gypsy enjoyed the
sport as keenly as any of us, even going so far, one day, as to trot
down the beach into the sea where we were bathing. As she took the cart
with her, our provisions were not much improved. I shall never forget
how squash-pie tastes after being soused in the Atlantic Ocean.
Soda-crackers dipped in salt water are palatable, but not squash-pie.

There was a good deal of wet weather during those first six weeks at
Rivermouth, and we set ourselves at work to find some indoor amusement
for our half-holidays. It was all very well for Amadis de Gaul and Don
Quixote not to mind the rain; they had iron overcoats, and were not,
from all we can learn, subject to croup and the guidance of their
grandfathers. Our case was different.

"Now, boys, what shall we do?" I asked, addressing a thoughtful conclave
of seven, assembled in our barn one dismal rainy afternoon.

"Let's have a theatre," suggested Binny Wallace.

The very thing! But where? The loft of the stable was ready to burst
with hay provided for Gypsy, but the long room over the carriage-house
was unoccupied. The place of all places! My managerial eye saw at a