line of boys and girls, and chanted--

"Acker, backer, soda cracker,
Acker, backer, boo!
If yer father chews terbacker,
Out goes you.

And now you're it," he finished pointing at me.

I was not to be outdone. "Ten, twenty, thirty, forty,--" I began to
mumble. Then, "One thousand!" I shouted.

"Bushel o' wheat and a bushel o' rye,
All 't 'aint hid, holler knee high!"

I looked for a stick, stood it on end, and let it fall. It fell toward
the boulder. "You're up in the sassafras tree," I said.

"No," said Old Hundred, "that's Benny."

Then we looked at each other and laughed.

"You poor old idiot," said Old Hundred.

"You doddering imbecile," said I, "come on up to Sandy."

Somehow, it wasn't far to Sandy. It used to be miles. We passed by
Myrtie Swett's house on the way. It stood back from the turnpike just
as ever, with its ample doorway, its great shadowing elms, its air of
haughty well-being. Myrtie, besides a prize speller, was something of
a social queen. She was very beautiful and she affected ennui.

"Oh, dear, bread and beer,
If I was home I shouldn't be here!"

she used to say at parties, with a tired air that was the secret envy
of the other little girls, who were unable to conceal their pleasure
at being "here." However, Myrtie never went home, we noticed. Rather
did she take a leading part in every game of Drop-the-handkerchief,
Post Office, or Copenhagen--tinglingly thrilling games, with unknown
possibilities of a sentimental nature.

"If I thought she still lived in the old place, I'd go up and tell her
I had a letter for her," said Old Hundred.

"She'd probably give you a stamp," I replied.

"Not unless she's changed!" he grinned.

But we saw no signs of Myrtie. Several children played in the yard.
There was the face of a strange woman at the window, a very plain
woman, who looked old, as she peered keenly at the two urban passers.

"It _can't_ be Myrtie!" I heard Old Hundred mutter, as he hastened on.

Sandy was almost the most wonderful spot in the world. It was, as most
swimming holes are, on the down-stream side of a bridge. The little
river widened out, on its way through the meadows, here and there into
swimming holes of greater or less desirability. There was Lob's Pond,
by the mill, and Deep Pool, and Musk Rat, and Little Sandy. But Sandy
was the best of them all. It was shaded on one side by great trees,
and the banks were hidden from the