In short, Frank was homesick. Finding himself once
more in his favorite element had made him think of old times. He wandered
slowly along, recalling many a fishing frolic and boat-race he had engaged
in, until a loud chatter above his head roused him from his reverie. He
looked up just in time to see a large squirrel striving to hide himself
among the leaves on a tree that stood close by. Frank's gun was at his
shoulder in a moment, and taking a quick aim at the squirrel, he pulled
the trigger. But the old Springfield musket was not intended for fine
shooting; for, though the shot cut the leaves all around, the squirrel
escaped unhurt, and, running up to the topmost branch, again concealed
himself. While Frank was reloading, Archie came up, and stood leaning on
his gun, with rather a dejected air. "What's the matter with you?"
inquired Frank.
"I wish I was down to the river," answered Archie.
"What would you do there? go fishing?"
"No, but I'd sink this musket so deep that no one would ever find it
again. It don't shoot worth a row of pins. If I was standing twenty feet
from the side of a barn, I couldn't hit it, I wish I had my shot-gun
here.
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