ally were large and dangerous looking whirlpools to be seen in its yellow depths, and the banks were forever washing away. Not that any of us ever got very near the banks but—a few of us remembered dimly the floods of 1903 when the water crept up to the gutters of buildings and swept away bridges and spread out over the lowlands as far as eye could see.
One of the particularly entrancing made-up games was called Bogie. It was played in my grandmother’s barn and consisted of taking imaginary journeys in an old abandoned carriage. Fortunately next door lived two understanding cousins who were always bursting with ideas. Together we traveled far and wide through hair-raising adventures without ever leaving the barn.
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The horses jogged along after an all-day trip.
“Isn’t it about time we were getting into the next town?” a passenger remarks nonchalantly.
“If we’re on the right road,” the driver replies darkly, “we ought to make it by nightfall.”
(Studied observations of local geography by all concerned.)
“Let’s see a map. This place doesn’t look familiar to me,” helpfully suggests back seat left.
“I don’t remember these swamps at all. And not a house in sight,” front seat right chimes in. “Anything might happen.”
“WHAT’S THAT OVER THERE?”
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