was the apple of the eye of the Curator of the Gardens, so we
buried the episode and the birds, in profound secrecy.

For my younger brother and myself, this lake had a different
attraction, for, improbable as it may seem, it was the haunt of a
gang of most abandoned pirates. Behind a wooded island, but quite
invisible to the adult eye, the pirate craft lay, conforming in
the most orthodox fashion to the descriptions in Ballantyne's
books: "a schooner with a long, low black hull, and a suspicious
rake to her masts. The copper on her bottom had been burnished
till it looked like gold, and the black flag, with the skull and
cross-bones, drooped lazily from her peak."

The presence of this band of desperadoes entailed the utmost
caution and watchfulness in the neighbourhood of the lake.
Unfortunately, we nearly succeeded in drowning some young friends
of ours, whom we persuaded to accompany us in an attack on the
pirates' stronghold. We embarked on a raft used for cutting weeds,
but no sooner had we shoved off than the raft at once, most
inconsiderately, sank to the bottom of the lake with us. Being
Christmas time, the water was not over-warm, and we had some
difficulty in extricating our young friends. Their parents made
the most absurd fuss about their sons having been forced to take a
cold bath in mid-December in their best clothes. Clearly we could
not be held responsible for the raft failing to prove sea-worthy,
though my youngest brother, even then a nice stickler for correct
English, declared, that, given the circumstances, the proper
epithet was "lake-worthy."

What a wonderful dream-world the child can create for himself, and