"Further I shall not go," Mr. Payton stated. "I do not care for wading and I've brought no boots. Minnie's busy in her garden, and I'll return to mine. Farewell, Philosophers. Farewell, Fangs." "Good-by, Uncle Pin." Already the children were sitting on the ground, taking off their shoes and socks. Soon they were squelching cautiously through the forest of reeds. It was eventful walking. Frogs kept popping out of the way, and once something slithered and wriggled under Portia's foot. "Man, can you squeal!" Julian said admiringly. "You sounded like the noon whistle at Pork Ferry." "Well, heavens, I'm not in the habit of walking on snakes!" Now they emerged from the reeds to the water meadow; Tarrigo saw them and came barking and splashing, sending showers of water sparks into the air. Beyond, where water meadow turned to tufted bog, Mrs. Cheever stood waving to them with her trowel. "Good morning, children, welcome! You're just in time to see the arethusas; they've survived another winter, thank fortune." Great banks of sheep laurel were in bloom, deep rose color--"beautiful, but poisonous," Mrs. Cheever said. "That's why it has that name. Sheep have grazed on it and died." Clumps of wild flag made blue islands in a sea already blue with blue-eyed grass; but the arethusas were pink, each growing by itself, its flower shaped like a tiny half-open hand. Portia admired every one of them, and after that every grass pink, and every pitcher plant. She prowled and stooped and examined, wading in and out of water. At this time of year, when brooks and ponds were cold as ice, the bog water, thin and open to the sun, was as warm as her own skin. "I love this place," Portia said. "I love the smell of it. It smells like a jungle near the Orinoco, or someplace." "Or like a hothouse," Julian said. Actually it smelled like both those things: steamy, rich, tropical, healthy. And it had so much to offer! Rare flowers for those who were interested in them; bog butterflies for people who were lepidopterists, like Julian; snakes for people who were herpetologists, like his friend Tom Parks; frogs and turtles for people who were seven years old, like Foster and Davey. "But I suppose we ought to go and start our house cleaning," Portia said regretfully. "I guess so, and anyway the mosquitoes are beginning." Julian gave himself a vigorous slap. "We forgot to put on your Anti-Pest Decoction," Portia told Mrs. Cheever, and slapped _herself_. "Well, run along then, run along; you'll be devoured!" "We have to clean our club, too," Foster said importantly. "Come on, Dave; we haven't got all day." "Dirt is patient; it will wait," said Mrs. Cheever calmly. "That's _one_ thing." * * * * *