"Never mind, Julia, we won't be bored by any board"--said the jocose old
gentleman.

"I'm sure, uncle"--said one of the youths--"we don't require any board,
for we provide ourselves."

"You're quite right, Master Dickey," said his uncle; "for we only came
out for a lark, you know, and no lark requires more than a little turf
for its entertainment; pull close to the bank, and let us land."

"Oh! but suppose," said the timid Julia, "the surly owner should pounce
upon us, just as we are taking our wine?"

"Why then, my love," replied he, "we have only to abandon our wine, and,
like sober members of the Temperance Society--take water."

Pulling the wherry close along side the grassy bank, and fastening it
carefully to the stump of an old tree, the whole party landed.

"How soft and beautiful is the green-sward here," said the romantic
Julia, indenting the yielding grass with her kid-covered tiny feet; "Does
not a gentleman of the name of Nimrod sing the pleasure of the Turf?"
said Emma: "I wonder if he ever felt it as we do?"

"Certainly not," replied Master Dickey, winking at his uncle; "for the
blades of the Turf he describes, are neither so fresh nor so green as
these; and the 'stakes' he mentions are rather different from those
contained in our pigeon-pie."