Father, in shirt sleeves rolled up to the shoulders, and trousers rolled
up to the knees, in the middle of the pool, trying to upheave from the
bottom a rock larger than himself--if he only knew it! But he doesn't,
because it is deeply embedded, therefore he toils on in hope. George
building, with turf and stone, a strong embankment with a narrow outlet,
to allow the surplus water to escape. Fred, Lucy, Tilly, and Peter
cutting turf and carrying stones. Mother superintending the whole, and
making remarks. Jacky making himself universally disagreeable, and
distracting his mother in a miscellaneous sort of way.
"It's as good as Robinson Crusoe any day!" cries father, panting and
wiping his bald forehead. "What a stone! I can't budge it." He stoops
again, to conquer, if possible; but the great difficulty with father is,
that the water comes so near to his tucked-up trousers that he cannot
put forth his full strength without wetting them; and mother insists
that this must not be done. "Come, George and Fred, bring the pick-axe
and the iron lever, we _must_ have this fellow out, he's right in the
middle of the pool. Now, then, heave!"
The lads obey, and father straddles so fiercely that one leg slips down.
"Hah! _there_, you've done it now!" from mother.
"Well, my dear, it can't be helped," meekly, from father, who is
secretly glad, and prepares to root out the stone like a Hercules.
Jacky gets excited, and hopes the other leg will slip down and get wet,
too!
"Here, hand me the lever, George; you don't put enough force to it."
George obeys and grins. "Now then, once more, with will--ho! hi! hup!"
Father strains at the lever, which, not having been properly fixed,
slips, and he finds himself suddenly in a sitting posture, with the
water round his waist. As the cool element embraces his loins, he
"h-ah-ah!" gasps, as every bather knows how; but the shock to his system
is nothing compared with the aggravation to his feelings when he hears
the joyful yell of triumph that issues from the brazen lungs of his
youngest hope.
"Never mind, I'll work all the better now--come, let us be jolly, and
clear out the rest of the pool." Good man! nothing can put him out.
Gradually the bottom is cleared of stones, (excepting the big one), and
levelled, and the embankment is built to a sufficient height.
"Now for the finishing touch!" cries George; "bring the turf; Fred--I'm
ready!" The water of the burn is rushing violently through the narrow
outlet in the "dike." A heavy stone is dropped into the gap, and turf
is piled on.
"More turf! more stones! quick, look alive!--it'll burst everything--
there, that's it!"
All hands toil and work at the opening, to smother it up. The angry
element leaks through, bursts, gushes--is choked back with a ready turf;
and squirts up in their faces. Mother is stunned to see the power of so
small a stream when the attempt is made to check it thoroughly; she is
not mechanically-minded by nature, and has learned nothing in that way
by education. It is stopped at last, however.
For a quarter of an hour the waters from above are cut off from those
below, as completely as were those of the Jordan in days of old. They
all stand panting and silent, watching the rising of the water, while
George keeps a sharp eye on the dike to detect and repair any weakness.
At last it is full, and the surplus runs over in a pretty cascade, while
the accommodating stream piles mud and stones against the dike, and thus
unwittingly strengthens the barrier. The pool is formed, full three
feet deep by twenty broad. Jacky wants to bathe at once.
"But the pool is like pea-soup, my pet--wait until it clears."
"I won't--let me bathe!"
"O Jacky, my darling!"
He does; for in his struggles he slips on the bank, goes in head
foremost, and is fished out in a disgusting condition!
So the bathing-pool was made. It was undoubtedly a "great institution;"
they did not know at the time, that, like many such institutions, it was
liable to destruction; but they lived to see it.
Meanwhile, to return from this long digression, Lucy, Tilly, and Jacky
bathed, while Mrs Brown watched and scolded. This duty performed, they
returned to the house, where they found the remainder of the party ready
for a journey on foot to Lake "What-you-may-call-it," which lake Lucy
named the Lake of the Clouds, its Gaelic cognomen being quite
unpronounceable.