Ethan laid aside his paddle and mopped his face with his handkerchief. The canoe, left to its own devices, poked its nose against the meadow bank and allowed its stern to float slowly around in the languid current. He gazed across the fields over which the heat-waves danced and shimmered and addressed himself to his cigarette case. [Illustration] “Providence,” he said, “showed great wisdom when it arranged that the Pilgrims should land on the coast of Massachusetts. ‘From what I’ve seen of these folks and what I’ve heard about them,’ says Providence, ‘I don’t believe they’re going to be much of an acquisition to the New World. But I’ll give ’em a fair show. I’ll see that they land at Plymouth and if they can survive a Massachusetts winter _and_ a Massachusetts summer I’ll have nothing more to say. Those of them alive a year from now will be entitled to prizes in the Endurance Test and will have qualified to become Hardy Pioneers and build up the country.’” He mopped his face again, lighted a cigarette and took up his paddle. “One would think that this state might show moderation at some season of the year,” he added disgustedly. “But not content with her Old Fashioned Winters, Backward Springs and Early Falls she has to try and wrest the Hot Weather blue ribbon from Arizona! No wonder they say a Bostonian isn’t contented in Heaven; doubtless he finds the weather frightfully equable and monotonous!” He righted the canoe and went on, with a glance at the sky above the hills. “We’re probably in for a jolly good thunder-storm this afternoon,” he muttered. [Illustration]