creek runs in—was the pleasure haunt best known to us. It was approached through Coopertown, that rustic settlement which the Bryn Mawr squire has recently turned into a Tom Tiddler's ground. Across stubble fields and down an enchanting valley carpeted with moss we scoured on many and many an afternoon, laden with the rudiments of a meal. There was said to be a choleric farmer with a shotgun and an angry collie on the western marge of the stream, and it was always a matter of courage to send over an envoy (chosen by lot) to bag a few ears of corn for roasting. But for our own part we never encountered this enemy, though Mifflin once came throbbing back empty-handed and pale-faced, reporting that a charge of lead had sung past his ears. Above a small dam the creek backed up to a decent depth, five feet or so of cool green water, and here bathing was conducted in the ancient Greek manner. There were sun-warmed fence rails nearby for basking, and then a fire would be built and vittles mobilized. Tobacco pouches were emptied out into one common store, and by the time this was smoked out a white moonlight would be spilling over the autumn fields.
We grew so fond of this section of our Abana that we never explored the full length of the stream. It would be a lovely day's jaunt, we imagine, to set out from Darby (where Cobb's creek joins Darby Creek) and walk up the little river to its source at Daylesford. (The original
