But the cool shade and the rich grass and the fine view were not what they had climbed for.

They could not have told, although whatever had drawn them was well-satisfying.

Light, sure-footed as a mountain goat, Bess pattered down at Venters's heels; and they went on, calling the dogs, eyes dreamy and wide, listening to the wind and the bees and the crickets and the birds.
Part of the time Ring and Whitie led the way, then Venters, then Bess; and the direction was not an object.

They left the sun-streaked shade of the oaks, brushed the long grass of the meadows, entered the green and fragrant swaying willows, to stop, at length, under the huge old cottonwoods where the beavers were busy.
Here they rested and watched.

A dam of brush and logs and mud and stones backed the stream into a little lake.