"I move we call them by an Indian name," said Job Paddock, the schoolmaster, who was deep in Indian lore. "Let us call them The Kah-youk-weh-reh Ogh-ne-ka-nos, or, The Arrow Water, or The Water of the Arrow; just as you fancy." "Kaw--what?" again interrupted Jobson; "a real queer name that--Kah-you-qweer-reh Oh-cane-my-nose!" "Do hold your tongue, Jobson!" said Claypole, "you are enough to drive one crazy!" "Mr. Jobson is not much inclined to poetry, I believe," lisped May Blossom, with a smile dimpling her beautiful mouth. "Poetry is well enough in its place," grumbled Jobson; "in speaking exercises, and so on; but what's poetry to do with naming falls of water, I should like to know?" "Let us call them Meadow Brook Falls," said beautiful Annie Mapes. "There's no meadow in sight, and your brook is a torrent," said Mayfield. "Well, what _shall_ we call them?" burst out once more the full chorus. "I think the best way is to go and see them first;" again grumbled Jobson, not much relishing the idea of all the company turning against him. This was really the most practical remark yet made, as none of the assemblage had seen them but Mayfield, who absolutely declined suggesting any name, and accordingly Jobson's idea was instantly adopted. The next day was settled upon for the jaunt, and consequently the company assembled at an early hour to start. It was as bewitching an autumn day as ever beamed on the earth, such an one as Doughty loves to fasten upon his glorious canvas. It would have glittered with golden splendor, had it not been toned down by a delicate haze, which could scarcely be seen near by, but which gradually thickened on the distant landscape until it brushed away the outlines of the mountain summits, so that they seemed steeped in a delicious swoon.