These eleven-year-old boys were staying with their mothers at a farm-house
up among the mountains; and having got tired of the tame bears, the big
barn, the trout brook, the thirty colts at pasture, and the society of the
few little girls and younger boys at the hotel near by, these fine fellows
longed to break loose and "rough it in the bush," as the hunters did in
their favorite stories.

Away they went, deeper and deeper into the great forest that covered the
side of the mountain. A pleasant place that August day; for it was cool
and green, with many brooks splashing over the rocks, or lying in brown
pools under the ferns. Squirrels chattered and raced in the tall pines;
now and then a gray rabbit skipped out of sight among the brakes, or a
strange bird flew by. Here and there blackberries grew in the open places,
sassafras bushes were plentiful, and black-birch bark was ready for
chewing.

"Don't you call this nice?" asked Tommy, pausing at last in a little dell
where a noisy brook came tumbling down the mountain side, and the pines
sung overhead.

"Yes; but I'm awful hungry. Let's rest and eat our lunch," said Billy,
sitting down on a cushion of moss.

"You always want to be stuffing and resting," answered sturdy Tommy, who
liked to be moving all the time.

He took the fishing-basket, which hung over his shoulder by a strap, and
opened it carefully; for good Mrs. Mullin had packed a nice lunch of bread
and butter, cake and peaches, with a bottle of milk, and two large pickles
slipped in on the sly to please the boys.