The girls immediately began to talk about picnics, and have them, too; for little hats sprung up in the fields like a new sort of mushroom,—­every hill-side bloomed with gay gowns, looking as if the flowers had gone out for a walk, and the woods were full of featherless birds chirping away as blithely as the thrushes, robins, and wrens.

The boys took to base-ball like ducks to water, and the common was the scene of tremendous battles waged with much tumult but little bloodshed.  To the uninitiated it appeared as if these young men had lost their wits; for no matter how warm it was, there they were, tearing about in the maddest manner, jackets off, sleeves rolled up, queer caps flung on anyway, all batting shabby leather balls and catching the same as if their lives depended on it.  Every one talking in his gruffest tone, bawling at the top of his voice, squabbling over every point of the game, and seeming to enjoy himself immensely in spite of the heat, dust, uproar, and imminent danger of getting eyes or teeth knocked out.

Thorny was an excellent player, but not being strong enough to show his prowess, he made Ben his proxy, and, sitting on the fence, acted as umpire to his heart’s content.  Ben was a promising pupil and made rapid progress, for eye, foot, and hand had been so well trained that they did him good service now, and Brown was considered a first-rate “catcher.”

Sancho distinguished himself by his skill in hunting up stray balls, and guarding jackets when not needed, with the air of one of the Old Guard on duty at the tomb of Napoleon.  Bab also longed to join in the fun, which suited her better than “stupid picnics” or “fussing over dolls;” but her heroes would not have her at any price, and she was obliged to content herself with sitting by Thorny, and watching with breathless interest the varying fortunes of “our side.”

A grand match was planned for the Fourth of July; but when the club met, things were found to be unpropitious.  Thorny had gone out of town with his sister to pass the day, two of the best players did not appear, and the others were somewhat exhausted by the festivities, which began at sunrise for them.  So they lay about on the grass in the shade of the big elm, languidly discussing their various wrongs and disappointments.

“It’s the meanest Fourth I ever saw.  Can’t have no crackers, because somebody’s horse got scared last year,” growled Sam Kitteridge, bitterly resenting the stern edict which forbade free-born citizens to burn as much gunpowder as they liked on that glorious day.

“Last year Jimmy got his arm blown off when they fired the old cannon.  Didn’t we have a lively time going for the doctors and getting him home?” asked another boy, looking as if he felt defrauded of the most interesting part of the anniversary, because no accident had occurred.

“Ain’t going to be fire-works either, unless somebody’s barn burns up.  Don’t I just wish there would,” gloomily responded another youth who had so rashly indulged in pyrotechnics on a former occasion that a neighbor’s cow had been roasted whole.