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Two better boys than Walter and Eugene Gaylord never lived, and none ever had a pleasanter home or a kinder father and mother. When we say that they were good boys, we do not mean that they were perfect. We would not give a fig for an army of perfect boys, even if there were such impossible things in the world; but, thank goodness, they do not exist outside of story-books. Walter and Eugene had their faults, and some glaring ones, too, like all other live, wide-awake boys. They had done things they were sorry for and did not mean to do again; and, on more than one occasion—we regret to say it, but candor compels us—they had been seen with very long faces walking reluctantly into the library, whither they were followed by their father, who carried in his hand something that looked very much like an apple-tree switch. But, for all that, they were first-rate fellows—kind, obliging, and good-tempered.

There was a year’s difference in their ages, and a great deal of difference in their tastes, dispositions and habits. Walter, the older, thoroughly enjoyed himself in a quiet way, and thought more of a good book and a pair of slippers than he did of the ball club and debating society. He owned a splendid double-barrel, and was an excellent shot on the wing; but he had been known to sit for hours behind his brush-blind on the banks of the bayou, and watch a flock of canvas-backs, which were sporting about in the water within easy range of his gun, without firing a shot at them. He was studying their habits, he said. Eugene, on the other hand, was a wild, uneasy fellow, and he could not possibly enjoy himself without plenty of noise. He was a capital sailor, and nothing suited him better than to stand at the helm of the Banner (that was the name of the yacht he and his brother owned, and a swift, beautiful little craft she was) while she was bounding over the waves of the bay before a stiff breeze with all her canvas spread. He was an enthusiastic and skilful fisherman, a good shot, and woe to the squirrel or duck that showed its head within range of his Smith & Wesson rifle. It made no difference to him what the “habits” of the game were, so long as he secured a respectable bunch to carry home. He had more than once been capsized in the bay; had broken his arm in an attempt to climb one of the lofty elm trees in the yard; had tumbled over cliffs while searching for sea-gulls’ nests; and had fallen into quick-sands, while stalking pelicans in the swamp, and narrowly escaped with his life; but he was hale and hearty still, and none the worse for his adventures.