Songbird Powell and Fred Garrison went along, and all took their fishing outfits and plenty of bait.
"Bring home a nice mess of fish," said Dick, on parting with his brothers.

"Sorry I can't go with you." "Oh, you'll have company enough," declared Sam.

"I heard that some of the country folks are going to visit the encampment to-day and perhaps those Staton girls will be among them." The four boys were soon on the way, two rowing at a time.

The weather was ideal, and the water as smooth as that of a mill pond.
"What a beautiful spot this is," declared Fred, as they glided long.
"I'm sure Captain Putnam could not have selected a better." "I have already gotten some splendid pictures," returned Powell, who possessed a good snap-shot camera, now lying on the stern seat of the boat.

"I'm going to take some more pictures to-day." On the way to the upper end of the lake Sam did a little fishing and brought in one bass of fair size.
"This makes a fellow feel like a true poet," murmured Powell, gazing dreamily at the water, and then he went on: "I love to glide, By the green-clad side Of the glassy lake, And there to take My ease with book Or line and hook, And spend the day Far, far away From care and toil, On Nature's soil." "Just to listen to Songbird!" cried Tom.