The Peters girls did not often come upon the scene. But when they did, it was more disturbing than to be raked over the back by those snakes. The south side of the pool offered the best place for the snakes to sun themselves — and as soon as the water was agitated by the bathers coming in from the north side, as they always did, the snakes would drop off into the water and make, blindly, for the opposite side and disappear under the north bank. Some of the snakes seemed to sleep more soundly than others, and, on a good day, the snake parade to the north side, while not continuous was, seemingly, never ended. Were it true, as claimed in the old days, that those snakes passing over one’s back would make hair grow wherever they touched the bare skin, I would have more hair on my back than I now have on my head. And occasionally a turtle would drop off those bushes into the swimming hole. It was said by oldtimers that should a turtle nip you that it would not let loose until sundown. Other oldsters said it would hang on until it thundered. The adventurous youngsters—usually ready to try anything—never, to my knowledge, tried to find out which way was right. With brassy skies and prolonged summer droughts; with thunder clouds few and far between, made it too risky. At that time swim-suits were unknown here — maybe just not used—and always after a swim with the Peters girls, we would have to walk home in our wet pants. That chain of water holes along a three-mile treeless water course, was said to have been “buffalo” holes. But this I was inclined to doubt, after seeing the remains of true buffalo wallows in Western Kansas. My Uncle Nick Bristow said there were no buffalo here when he came, and that so far as he knew no one before him had seen any. But in my time, the whole plains country west of the Blue river was swarming with them. They were shamefully slaughtered by eastern outfitted crews, for their hides. I believe that Zan Gray ’ s novel, “The Thundering Herd, ” was inspired by the big herds of buffalo in Southwestern Kansas. Then there were the “second” pools, a longer wash, one mile farther south, fed partly by the Bradford spring, which we would patronize in dry times when the stream connecting the “first” pools would stop running. Back at the tanyard pool: Those girls, full of high spirits and gay chatter, scooped up our clothing, such as it was, and stood on the bank laughing at us. Save for the one with head so nattily ensconced in tree crotch, all were in water up to necks, and thinking some rather ugly thoughts, we were, I can assure you, most miserable. Miserable, however, does not fully define the plight of the featherless bird on the bank.