indicated, and I could not mistake them. "Now what could we want
better than this?" she continued. "Here we can fish, and do
everything that we want to. I say, let us camp here on our own
river. I can take you to the very spot for the tent. Come on!"
And she was so excited about it that she fairly ran.

The spot she pointed out was one we had frequently visited in our
rural walks. It was a grassy peninsula, as I termed it, formed by
a sudden turn of a creek which, a short distance below, flowed into
the river. It was a very secluded spot. The place was approached
through a pasture-field,--we had found it by mere accident,--and
where the peninsula joined the field (we had to climb a fence just
there), there was a cluster of chestnut and hickory trees, while
down near the point stood a wide-spreading oak.

"Here, under this oak, is the place for the tent," said Euphemia,
her face flushed, her eyes sparkling, and her dress a little torn
by getting over the fence in a hurry. "What do we want with your
Adirondacks and your Dismal Swamps? This is the spot for us!"

"Euphemia," said I, in as composed a tone as possible, although my
whole frame was trembling with emotion, "Euphemia, I am glad I
married you!"

Had it not been Sunday, we would have set up our tent that night.

Early the next morning, old John's fifteen-dollar horse drew from
our house a wagon-load of camp-fixtures. There was some difficulty
in getting the wagon over the field, and there were fences to be
taken down to allow of its passage; but we overcame all obstacles,