as I was composing myself for the night, the door opened and Joe Wayring came in. Making good his boast, that if folks would let his property alone, he could find any thing he wanted on the darkest of nights and without the aid of a lamp, Joe caught up the creel with one hand, seized me with the other, and carrying us both down-stairs, deposited us on the kitchen table beside something that was covered with a snow-white cloth. Then he busied himself for a few minutes about the stove, getting kindling and light wood together so that a fire could be readily started; and after I had watched his movements for a while, I made up my mind that a campaign of some sort was in prospect. When he took the light and went out I said to the creel:
"Do you happen to know what day this is?"
"It's Friday," he replied. "To-morrow will be Saturday, and I should judge by the looks of things, that we are going to make our first trip after trout."
Do you know by experience how a youngster feels when he is about to be called up before a hundred or more critical school mates to recite his little piece beginning—
