every member of the family could pack
up and go picnicking for days at a
time, and that any stray horse was
likely to be ridden bareback, within an
inch of its life, by the younger mem-
bers of the family.

Only once however, did I have a
chance to meet one of these modern
Visigoths face to face, and the feelings
aroused by that incident remained the
darling secret of my youth. I dared tell
no one, and I longed, yet feared, to have
the experience repeated. But it never
was! It happened in this way:

On a certain Sunday afternoon in
May, my father and mother and I went
to Emmons' Woods. To reach Em-
mons' Woods, you went out the back
door, past the pump and the currant
bushes, then down the path to the
chicken-houses, and so on, by way of
the woodpile, to the south gate. After
that, you went west toward the clover
meadows, past the house where the
Crazy Lady lived -- here, if you were
alone, you ran -- and then, reaching the
verge of the woods, you took your
choice of climbing a seven-rail fence or