Turtles, pout, lily roots as big as
small trees, and two hundred loads of "alluvial deposit" are no longer
"in it," while carp are promised me by my friend Commissioner Blackford.
The "Tomtoolan"[2] is not a large body of water--one hundred and fifty
feet long, seventy-five feet wide--but it is a delight to me and has
been grossly traduced by ignorant or envious outsiders. The day after
the "Katy-Did" was christened (a flat-bottomed boat, painted prettily
with blue and gold) I invited a lady to try it with me. Flags were
fluttering from stem and stern. We took a gayly colored horn to toot as
we went, and two dippers to bail, if necessary. It was not exactly
"Youth at the prow and Pleasure at the helm," but we were very jolly and
not a little proud.
[Footnote 2: Named in honor of the amateur engineers.]
A neglected knot-hole soon caused the boat to leak badly. We had made
but one circuit, when we were obliged to "hug the shore" and devote our
entire energies to bailing. "Tip her a little more," I cried, and the
next instant we were both rolled into the water. It was an absurd
experience, and after scrambling out, our clothes so heavy we could
scarcely step, we vowed, between hysteric fits of laughter, to keep our
tip-over a profound secret.
But the next time I went to town, friends began to smile mysteriously,
asked me if I had been out on the lake yet, made sly and jocose
allusions to a sudden change to Baptistic faith, and if I cordially
invited them to join me in a row, would declare a preference for surf
and salt water, or, if pressed, would murmur in the meanest way
something about having a bath-tub at home.
Pages:
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99