me?"

"I declare! You seem to take an intense interest in what I am going to say; here I've been waiting all afternoon to find you, and can't get in a word edgewise."

Dave rubbed his eyes, and looked as if he didn't hear a word. "Do you know, Sam," he drawled, "this brook always makes me think of Bryant's poem, 'The Green River.'

Ever read it, Sam? I'd advise you to; then it goes on like this:

"Well, Dave Brandon, I've a good mind not to tell you."

"Then don't," said the stout boy, in pretended anger.

"This is the last attempt I'm going to make," was Sam Randall's rejoinder. "You are certainly not lazy when it comes to interrupting a fellow—now listen; Bob Somers—mind you, Bob Somers, is going to form a club, a hunting and fishing club. I'm in it; so is Dick Travers and Tom Clifton—and you're going to join, of course!"

"A hunting and fishing club!"

Dave forsook his recumbent position and sat up with an alacrity that showed how fast he could move if the occasion demanded. "Am I going to join? Well, I guess so." Then he added, after a moment's hesitation, as he again settled languidly on the greensward: "Provided there isn't any hard work connected with it. A fellow can't keep going like a steam engine both winter and summer. Sam, I feel most uncommonly like taking a nap."

"Well, it is just what you are not going to do," declared his friend, emphatically. "I told Bob Somers that we would both be on hand at three o'clock this afternoon to talk the matter over."

"It seems I can never get any rest," grumbled Dave. "I could just lie here all day and listen to the birds. They make me think of the line—"

"Dave Brandon," said Sam, hastily, as he seized his friend's coat sleeve, "get right up! The club is about to be organized, officers elected and—"

"Leave it till to-morrow," said Dave, coaxingly.

"No, sir!"

"Very well, I suppose I'll have to go. It was the bee that made me sleepy, by spoiling a nice little nap."

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