At that time the deep slough south of the railroad tracks, instead of turning abruptly at Kansas avenue and paralleling that street to the creek as it does now, flowed straight across to a point fifty yards down stream. The narrow strip of land between slough and creek formed the north bank of the old swimming hole. Trees and bramble shut out public gaze fairly well, but they did not make a dependable screen against prying eyes. Ten yards farther down stream from the mouth of the slough was the old ford. Still farther down stream there was then and is now a mammoth elm tree that has budded and shed its leaves sixty times since that day. Tramped firm by cow hoofs, and free of weeds, this bit of ground marked the spot where our townspeople often went for a few hours loll in the shade, and where in the surrounding grove even picnics were sometimes held. It was here also where, on one Independence Day, a fine English lady from the old Colony essayed to pet a horse on its nether end and was kicked in the bread-basket. It was so phrased by our elders then. In the old days there was in use in the church a hymn-book containing a song entitled “Beautiful Gates Ajar.” “Dutch” Charley Kumbash, with the jarring note of the horse’s vengeance and the lady’s name fixed in mind, said: “It wass now for her the Peu-ti-ful Kates Achar.” The lady was a Mrs. Gates, daughter of John Radford—later, Mrs. “Paddy” Ryan. Starting from the friendly shade of that great elm, where they had gone to while away a little time, and stopping at the old ford for a wade in the water, a bevy of girls, wandering aimlessly about, fell upon the boys’ domain. Willie sent out a low whistle of warning. Eyes from all parts of the pond swept the opening down stream. Girls coming—a lot of them, too many to count. The boys ducked. Henry, who chanced to be in the top of a small elm tree ready for a dive, found the bottom of the pond with his proboscis in no time. One crafty little fellow, well plastered with mud, was caught wholly unawares, taking his siesta on the bank, cut off from the pond. As one having lost all sense of decency, he darted this way and that way in front of the girls—and then, like an ostrich, hid his head in the low forks of a tree, with back exposed to company. Well now, maybe it is that the ostrich, when he sticks his head in the sand, hopes that he might be taken for another bird. Shall I name this ostrich imitator? Well—maybe later. “Let them come!” yelled Henry Callahan, in a braggadocio way. “Who cares! We used to swim with the Peters girls—and that didn’t kill us.” “Yeah,” drawled Timothy Doble, in his usual draggy voice, “but remember, we had our pants on then—and that made a lot of difference.”