what I feel, anyway. Any fellow who can keep his mind on supper,
on a grand June day like this-----"

"I imagine that you'll keep your mind on the meal when you reach
the table," predicted Tom, grinning.

"That'll be time enough," Dave rejoined. "But I'm not going to
profane the woods, on a perfect June day, by thinking of kitchen
odors."

"Say, aren't you feeling well?" asked Tom gravely.

"That's just the point, I guess," broke in Dick Prescott, with
a light laugh. "Dave is feeling so extremely well and happy-----"

"Now, you're shouting," Darrin assented. "But it's no use for
poor Reade to ponder over the glories of nature. All he can think
of is the region bounded by his belt."

"Glories of nature?" repeated Reade. "If that's what you're talking
about, why didn't you announce your subject earlier? Yes, sir;
nature is at her greenest best to-day. Just look off through
that line of trees, and see how the light breeze moves the tops
in that field of young corn, and-----"

"Corn?" flared Dave. "Something to eat, of course! Tom, you're
hopeless when it comes to the finer things of life. You ought
to have been born in a pen, close to a well-filled trough. Corn,
indeed!"