Here and there a wild plum leaned out from the bank like a white-clad girl tip-toeing to her own reflection.

From the marsh at the head of the pond came the clear, mournfully-sweet chorus of the frogs.
There was a little gray house peering around a white apple orchard on a slope beyond and, although it was not yet quite dark, a light was shining from one of its windows.
"That's Barry's pond," said Matthew.
"Oh, I don't like that name, either.

I shall call it--let me see--the Lake of Shining Waters.

Yes, that is the right name for it.

I know because of the thrill.