have knit roots with saplings for mutual protection.

Setting-out day sees a procession of three water-carriers going Indian
file up one side of the knoll and down the other. Bart declares that by
the time his vacation is over he will be sufficiently trained to become
captain of the local fire company, which consists of an antique engine,
of about the capacity of one water-barrel, and a bucket brigade.

This profuse use of water, upon the principle of imitation, has brought
about another demand for it on the premises. The state of particularly
clay-and-leaf-mouldy perspiration in which Bart finds himself these days
cries aloud for a shower-bath, nor is he or his boots and clothing in a
suitable condition for tramping through the house and turning the family
bath-tub into a trough wherein one would think flower-pots had been
washed.

With the aid of Amos Opie an oil-barrel has been trussed up like a
miniature windmill tank in the end of the camp barn, one end of which
rests on the ground, and being cellarless has an earth floor. Around the
supports of this tank is fastened an unbleached cotton curtain, and when
standing within and pulling a cord attached to an improvised spray, the
contents of the barrel descend upon Bart's person with hygienic
thoroughness, the only drawback being that twelve pails of water have to
be carried up the short ladder that leads from floor to barrel top each
time the shower is used. Bart, however, seems to enjoy the process
immensely, and Larry, by the way in which he lingers about the place and
grins, evidently has a secret desire to experiment with it himself.

Larry has been a great comfort up to now, but we both have an undefined
idea that one of his periods of "rest" is approaching. He works with
feverish haste, alternating with times of sitting and looking at the
ground, that I fear bodes no good. He also seems to take a diabolic
pleasure in tormenting Amos Opie as regards the general make-up and
pedigree of his beloved hound David.

David has human intelligence in a setting that it would be difficult to
classify for a dog-show; a melancholy bloodhound strain certainly
percolates thoroughly through him, and his long ears, dewlaps, and front
legs, tending to bow, separate him from the fox "'ounds" of Larry's
experience. To Amos Opie David is the only type of hound worthy of the
name; consequently there has been no little language upon the subject.
That is, Larry has done the talking