I was ten years old then. Today, at sixty, I can recall the spirit of adventure on that day in May, when we started out before dawn, my little friend and I, to spend the day in the woods and fields below the mountain ranges.
The sky was deep blue and cloudless. A soft breeze blew the tall grass about as though imaginary fairies were moving about.
Removing our shoes and socks, we set out to free the hurrying brook of any entanglements we thought might block it’s way on it’s determined trip to the ocean. We worked silently, without exchanging a word, like small boys do when they have only one thing on their minds.
At high noon, the pangs of hunger drove us to stop. Under the shade of the willow tree, we ate our pocket lunch of bread and jelly, after which we lay flat on our stomachs to quench our thirst with long gulps of clear, cool water.
Hours later, as the sun reached the West, we headed for home both vowing to return at a later date. We took one last look at our discovery.
The farmers herd of cows were waiting at the gate as we came out of the woods. We carried our assortment of souvenirs, odd shaped stones, clutches of bluetts to replant, wild violets and flowers for May baskets.