more than its own weight. Do you believe that, cousin Bess?”
“What an idea, Rob! You must have misunderstood Miss Witherspoon. Just think of the loads of coal that horses draw, and the crowded street cars.”
“Yes, but she doesn’t know much, anyhow,” said Rob, with a lofty scorn that amused his cousin, who secretly shared his opinion. “But do you know what lots of turtles grow up in there?” and Rob pointed in among the trees. “I had six all at once last summer, and we used to set them to running races. It was hard work to make them go straight ahead, though.”
“Rob,” asked Bess, “why don’t you be a naturalist? I think you might be a good one.”
“Would you?” And Rob waited for his cousin’s reply as anxiously as if his choice of profession must be made on the spot.
“You are too young yet to tell; but you seem to like such things, and you keep your eyes wide open when you are out of doors. I don’t know why you couldn’t be trained for it.”
