Snythergen gave a sigh of relief when the bear went away and was just about to step out and un-bark, when he heard voices.

“This is the tree we are to chop down!” Snythergen heard one of them say, and already the woodchopper was swinging his axe. Snythergen did not wait for the blow to land, but leaped into the air and was off as fast as his roots would carry him. To be sure, he was hampered by his leaves and his branches and his sheath bark skirt. Brushing none too gently against bushes and trees he trod on the toes of innumerable growing things. Apologizing with his bows to right and left, he did not pause even to see what damage he had done, nor did he know he had stepped heavily on the roots of an oak, or rubbed the shins of a birch. He knew only that two woodsmen were after him, threatening to chop him into kindling wood.

“Did you ever see such a rude tree?” cried a graceful elm suffering from a broken limb. “And it’s so untreelike to run away like that! Suppose the rest of us did likewise—what would become of the forest!”

“If he is restless, I don’t object to his walking about in a gentlemanly manner,” said the birch whose shins had been rubbed, “as long as he picks his steps carefully; but to go slamming through regardless of the rest of us is most inconsiderate!”

There was much bobbing of tree-tops and angry shaking of limbs in the direction the runaway tree had taken. But Snythergen might have saved himself running so far and so fast, had he taken the trouble to look around. For the hunters were not following but standing still, astonished at the spectacle of a tree racing through the forest at break-limb speed. In all the years they had lived in the woods never had they seen a runaway tree before.

“Is the forest going crazy?” cried one. “What if all the trees were to run after us like a herd of buffalo! What chance would we have of escape?”

The mere thought of it was so terrifying they turned and ran, leaving coats, rifle, and axes where they lay, and they did not stop until they were well out of the woods and safe in their own home, behind locked doors and windows. And they did not stir abroad for two days.

When Sancho Wing saw the hunters and Snythergen running away from each other in opposite directions, it was too much for him. He laughed and laughed, and shook so that he fell from the limb he was perched on, and only saved himself from a bad fall by using his wings.

“Surely I have paid Snythergen now for all of his tricks,” he cried merrily.

During all this time Squeaky actually had remained asleep in Snythergen’s top branches, though his rest had been somewhat uneven.

“Where am I?” he cried, rubbing his eyes and waking up to find himself violently tossed about, and bumped against the branches of trees as Snythergen crashed through the forest.

With a breathless word here and there as he ran, Snythergen gave the pig an idea of what had happened, and when Squeaky realized all the dangers he had slept through, he lost his grip and would have fallen had Snythergen not tightened his hold. On and on ran the tree, stumbling and reeling, and with every lurch Squeaky’s little heart quivered; for tree-riding was as terrifying as hanging to the top of a mast in a storm at sea. What a relief when Snythergen slowed up and stopped at the shore of a lake, panting like a porpoise!

“I think you had better get down now,” said Snythergen, “for I am going to wade across that lake and plant myself in the farmer’s yard on the other side. I shall remain there until the woodchoppers get tired of looking for me. I believe my leg is cut. Will you look on the ground and see if I am bleeding?”

“I guess your leg isn’t bleeding,” said Squeaky after looking around, “for I don’t see any sawdust.”

“Would you mind running home now, Squeaky, just to see that Sancho Wing is all right? I am a little worried about him. But if you will come back to this spot twice a day I will signal across the lake to let you know how I am getting on.”

Very much shaken Squeaky limped home following the broad trail Snythergen had made through the woods, and found Sancho Wing still chuckling. After talking over their adventure for a little while they settled themselves for a nap.

As soon as Squeaky left him, Snythergen waded into the lake. He found the cool water refreshing to his overheated roots and tattered branches, but when he bent over to drink he came near losing his balance and floating away.

Only while he stood erect and kept in shallow water did his roots find a firm footing on the bottom of the lake. With much splashing of water and stirring of mud, and by wading around the deep places he managed to cross. When no one was looking, he crept into the farmer’s yard, where he hoped to find an end to his troubles. After looking the place over, he decided to plant himself where he would shade the dining-room window and could see what the family had for dinner. It occurred to him that if he became very hungry, he might reach through the window and help himself to a morsel of food. “Turn about is fair play,” he reasoned. “If I provide shade for them, they should not begrudge me a bite to eat now and then!”

Luckily the farmer and his wife were away at camp meeting when Snythergen arrived, and when they returned, it was dark. A crescent moon and the stars revealed but a dusky outline of the place.

“Somehow things don’t look natural around here,” said the farmer when he reached home. “The place seems changed, swelled out! Why, I believe the house has got the mumps!”

“Silas, you don’t think baby has the mumps, do you?” cried his wife, thinking he must be referring to their child.

“No, no, it’s the house that’s got the mumps,” said the farmer.

“Nonsense, Silas, you must be out of your mind!” she said. She saw nothing out of the way, for her eyes sought only the windows of a room on the other side of the house where her small son had been left, and nothing more was said about the matter that night.