In the spring, it was sometimes four feet deep.

It was a pleasant spot, for the mountains lay all around it, and shut it in with their great forest-arms, and the sharp peaks that were purple and crimson and gold, under passing shadows and fading sunsets.

And, then, is there any better fun than to paddle in the water?
Gypsy looked as if she thought not, when Winnie suddenly turned the corner, and ran down the slope.
She had finished her raft, and launched it off from the root of an old oak-tree that grew half in the water, and, with a long pole, had pushed herself a third of the way across the swamp.

Her dress was tucked up over her bright balmoral, and the ribbons of her hat were streaming in the wind.

She had no mittens or gloves on her hands, which were very pink and plump, and her feet were incased in high rubber boots.
"Hullo!" said Winnie, walking out on the root of the oak.
"Hilloa!" said Gypsy.
"I say--that's a bully raft." "To be sure it is." "I haven't had a ride on a raft since--why since 'leven or six years ago when I was a little boy.