a treat to watch him, his greenish third-best coat stuck all over
with apple-pips and shreds of pomace, as he helped to work the press
at the great annual cider-making. But I agree with their son, Master
Dick, that "it's rough on the guests."

Master Dick is now in his second year at Oxford; and it was probably
for his sake, to remove temptation from the growing lad, that Mrs.
Kendall first discovered the wickedness of all alcoholic drink.
Were he not an ordinary, good-natured boy--had he, as they say, an
ounce of vice in him--I doubt the good lady's method might go some
way towards defeating her purpose. As things are, it will probably
take no worse revenge upon her solicitude than by weaning him
insensibly away from home, to use his vacation-times in learning to
be a man.

Last Long Vacation, in company with a friend he calls Jinks, Master
Dick took a Canadian canoe out to Bordeaux by steamer, and spent six
adventurous weeks in descending the Dordogne and exploring the
Garonne with its tributaries. On his return he walked over to find
me smoking in my garden after dinner, and gave me a gleeful account
of his itinerary.

". . . And the next place we came to was Bergerac," said he, after
ten minutes of it.

"Ah!" I murmured. "Bergerac!"

"You know it?"

"Passably well," said I. "It lies toward the edge of the claret