"The logs are so like people!" she exclaimed, as they sat down.
"I could name nearly every one of them for somebody in the
village. Look at Mite Shapley, that dancing little one, slipping
over the falls and skimming along the top of the water, keeping
out of all the deep places, and never once touching the rocks."

Stephen fell into her mood. "There's Squire Anderson coming down
crosswise and bumping everything in reach. You know he's always
buying lumber and logs without knowing what he is going to do
with them. They just lie and rot by the roadside. The boys
always say that a toad-stool is the old Squire's 'mark' on a
log."

"And that stout, clumsy one is Short Dennett.--What are you
doing, Stephen!"

"Only building a fence round this clump of harebells," Stephen
replied. "They've just got well rooted, and if the boys come
skidding down the bank with their spiked shoes, the poor things
will never hold up their heads again. Now they're safe.--Oh,
look, Rose! There come the minister and his wife!"

A portly couple of peeled logs, exactly matched in size, came
ponderously over the falls together, rose within a second of each
other, joined again, and swept under the bridge side by side.

"And--oh! oh! Dr. and Mrs. Cram just after them! Isn't that
funny?" laughed Rose, as a very long, slender pair of pines swam
down, as close to each other as if they had been glued in that