clambered over the fence.

Not even a growling dog to intimate that I was trespassing. All
was open--gracious-looking--pastoral. The sward beneath my feet
was velvet-like in elasticity, and the scarce visible path I
followed through it led promptly to the open kitchen door. From
within I heard a woman singing some old ballad in an undertone,
while at the threshold a trim, white-spurred rooster stood poised
on one foot, curving his glossy neck and cocking his wattled head
as though to catch the meaning of the words. I paused. It was a
scene I felt restrained from breaking in upon, nor would I, but
for the sound of a strong male voice coming around the corner of
the house:

"Sir. Howdy!"

Turning, I saw a rough-looking but kindly featured man of sixty-
five, the evident owner of the place.

I returned his salutation with some confusion and much deference.
"I must really beg your pardon for this intrusion," I began, "but
I have been tiring myself out fishing, and your home here looked
so pleasant--and I felt so thirsty--and--"

"Want a drink, I reckon," said the old man, turning abruptly
toward the kitchen door, then pausing as suddenly, with a backward
motion of his thumb--"jest foller the path here down to the little
brick--that's the spring--and you'll find 'at you've come to the
right place fer drinkin'-worter! Hold on a minute tel I git you a
tumbler--there're nothin' down there but a tin."