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 days and the grieved urchins stood in miserable silence. The hurricane of the night before had nearly washed them away, and as everything was so wet their leader feared to let them sleep on the ground. The boys were heartbroken, but the scoutmaster said sagely: "I'd rather have the boys mad at me than their mothers."

In spite of the recent downpour, the walking was admirable. Roads were damp, easy underfoot, free from dust. Madrigal and Doggerel were gay at heart. They scrambled up the embankment of the deserted Delaware County Railroad, which is the most direct pathway toward the headwaters of Darby. It is possible to go along the bank of the creek, but underbrush was still drenched, and Mr. Sanderson uttered cryptic warning of a certain bull. On the grass-grown track of the antique railroad, treading gingerly over worm-eaten wooden trestles, the explorer enjoys perfect sunny tranquillity. It is only five miles from the city limits, but one moves in the heart of bird-song and ancient solitude. One freight train a day is the traffic of the forgotten line, and probably the director general of railroads never heard of it. It would not be surprising to meet Rip Van Winkle pacing thoughtfully along the mouldering ties. And as it is raised high above the valley, the walker gains a fair prospect over the green country of Darbyland. The creek, swollen with rain, brawled rapidly along its winding shallows. Cattle munched in the meadows.