A PARTY AND--MY FOURTH PERIL?
"A dead fish can swim down-stream but only a live one can swim up it," said Uncle Peabody as we rode toward the village together.

We had been talking of that strong current of evil which had tried to carry us along with it.

I understood him perfectly.
It was a rainy Sunday.

In the middle of the afternoon Uncle Peabody and I had set out in our spring buggy with the family umbrella--a faded but sacred implement, always carefully dried, after using, and hung in the clothes press.

I remember that its folded skirt was as big around as my coat sleeve and that Uncle Peabody always grasped it in the middle, with hand about its waist, in a way of speaking, when he carried it after a shower.