"Doublets!" said the hermit, throwing the dice.

"Dear, dear, what luck you do have!" said the bear. "Double sixes again! That takes you out, doesn't it?"

"Yes," said the hermit, "this finishes the game and the rubber. But just remember, my friend, how you beat me yesterday. I was gammoned over and over again, with never a doublet to save me from ruin."

"To be sure!" said Bruin, with a chuckle. "To be sure! yesterday was one of my good days. And so to-day you have gammoned me back again. I suppose that is why the game is called back-gammon, hey?"

"Possibly!" replied the hermit, smiling.

"And how have you been in the habit of playing?" continued the bear. "You spoke of playing last winter, you know. Whom did you play with, for example?"

"With myself," said the hermit,—"the right hand against the left. I taught my crow the game once, but it didn't work very well. He could not lift the dice-box, and could only throw the dice by running against the box, and upsetting it. This was apt to disarrange the pieces, you see; and as he would not trust me to throw for him, we gave it up."

"I see!" said Bruin, thoughtfully. "And what else did you do in the way of amusement?"

"I read, chiefly," replied the old man. "You see I have a good many books, and they are all good ones, which will bear reading many times."

"Humph!" said the bear. "That is one thing about you people that I cannot understand,—the reading of books. Seems so senseless, you know, when you can use your eyes for other things. But, tell me," he added, "have you never thought of trying our way of passing the winter? It is certainly much the best way, when one is alone. Choose a comfortable place, like this, for example, curl yourself up in the warmest corner, and there you are, with nothing to do but to sleep till spring comes again."

"I am afraid I could not do that," said the hermit with a smile. "We are made differently, you see. I cannot sleep more than a few hours at a time, at any season of the year."

"Not if you sucked your paw?" inquired the bear, eagerly. "That makes all the difference, you know. Have you ever tried sucking your paw?"

The hermit was forced to admit that he never had.

"Ah! well, you really must try it some day," said Bruin. "There is nothing like it, after all. Nothing like it! I will confess to you," he added in a low tone, and looking cautiously about to make sure that they were alone, "that I have missed it sadly this winter. In most respects this has been the happiest season of my life, and I have enjoyed it more than I can tell you; but still there are times,—when I am tired, you know, or the weather is dull, or Coon is a little trying, as he is sometimes,—times when I feel as if I would give a great deal for a quiet corner where I could suck my paw and sleep for a week or two."

"Couldn't you manage it, somehow?" asked the hermit, sympathetically.

"Oh, no! no!" replied the good bear, decidedly. "Coon thinks the Madam would not like it. He is very genteel, you know,—very genteel indeed, Coon is; and he says it wouldn't be at all 'the thing' for me to suck my paw anywhere about the place. I never know just what 'thing' he means when he says that, but it's a favorite expression of his; and he certainly knows a great deal about good manners. Besides," he added, more cheerfully, "there is always plenty of work to do, and that is the best thing to keep one awake. But now, Mr. Baldhead, it is time for your dinner, sir; and here am I sitting and talking, when I ought to be warming your broth!"

With these words the excellent bear arose, put away the backgammon board, and proceeded to build up the fire, hang the kettle, and put the broth on to warm, all as deftly as if he had been a cook all his life. He stirred and tasted, shook his head, tasted again, and then said,—

"You haven't the top of a young pine-tree anywhere about the house, I suppose? It would give this broth such a nice flavor."

"I am afraid not!" said the hermit, laughing. "I don't generally keep a large stock of such things on hand. But I fancy the broth will be very good without it, to judge from the last I had."

The bear still looked dissatisfied. "Do you ever put frogs in your broth?" he asked, presently. "Whole ones, you know, rolled in a batter, just like dumplings?"

"No!" said the hermit, quickly and decidedly. "I am quite sure I should not like them, thank you,—though it was very kind of you to make the suggestion!" he added, seeing that Bruin looked disappointed.

"You have no idea how nice they are," said the good bear, rather sadly. "But you are so strange, you people! I never could induce Toto or Madam to try them, either. I invented the soup myself,—at least the frog-dumpling part of it,—and made it one day as a little surprise for them. But when I told them what the dumplings were, Toto choked and rolled on the floor, and Madam was quite ill at the very thought, though she had not begun to eat her soup. So Coon and Cracker and I had it all to ourselves, and uncommonly good it was. It's a pity for people to be so prejudiced."

The good hermit was choking a little himself, for some reason or other, but he looked very grave when Bruin turned toward him for assent, and said, "Quite so!" which is a safe remark under most circumstances.

The broth being now ready, the bear proceeded to arrange a tray neatly, and set it before his patient, who took up his wooden spoon and fell to with right good-will. The good bear stood watching him with great satisfaction; and it was really a pity that there was no one there to watch the bear himself, for as he stood there with a clean cloth over his arm, his head on one side, and his honest face beaming with pride and pleasure, he was very well worth looking at.

At this moment a sharp cry of terror was heard outside, then a quick whirr of wings, and the next moment the wood-pigeon darted into the cave, closely pursued by a large hawk. Poor Pigeon Pretty! She was quite exhausted, and with one more piteous cry she fell fainting at Bruin's feet. In another instant the hawk would have pounced upon her, but that instant never came for the winged marauder. Instead, something or somebody pounced on him. A thick white covering enveloped him, entangling his claws, binding down his wings, well-nigh stifling him. He felt himself seized in an iron grasp and lifted bodily into the air, while a deep, stern voice exclaimed,—

"Now, sir! have you anything to say for yourself, before I wring your neck?"

Then the covering was drawn back from his head, and he found himself face to face with the great bear, whom he knew perfectly well by sight. But he was a bold fellow, too well used to danger to shrink from it, even in so terrible a form as this; and his fierce yellow eyes met the stern gaze of his captor without shrinking.

"Have you anything to say?" repeated the bear, "before I wring your ugly neck?"

"No!" replied the hawk, sullenly, "wring away."

This answer rather disconcerted our friend Bruin, who, as he sometimes said sadly to himself, had "lost all taste for killing;" so he only shook Master Hawk a little, and said,—

"Do you know of any reason why your neck should not be wrung?"

"None in life!" answered the hawk. "Wring away, I tell you! Are you afraid, you great clumsy monster?"

"I'll soon show you whether I am afraid or not!" said the bear, sternly. "Why did you chase my pigeon?"

"'Cause I wanted to eat her!" was the defiant reply. "If you had had nothing to eat for a week, you'd have eaten her long before this, I'll be bound!"

"Nothing to eat for a week!" repeated the bear, incredulously. "Why was that?"

"'Cause there wasn't anything, stupid!" said the other.

Here Bruin began to rub his nose with his disengaged paw, and to look helplessly about him, as he always did when disturbed in mind.

"Now—now—now!" he exclaimed, "you hawk, what do you mean by that? Couldn't you dig for roots?"

The hawk stared. "Dig for roots?" he repeated, contemptuously. "Look at my beak! Do you think I can dig with that?"

"It is rather short," said Bruin; "but—yes! why, of course, any one can dig, if he wants to."

"Ask that old thing," said the hawk, nodding toward the hermit, "whether he ever dug with his beak; and it's twice as long as mine."

"Of course he has!" replied Bruin, promptly; but then he faltered, for it suddenly occurred to him that he had never seen either Toto or the Madam dig with their noses; and it was with some hesitation that he asked:

"Mr. Baldhead—excuse me! but—a—have you ever tried digging for roots in the ground—with your beak—I mean, nose?"

The hermit looked up gravely, as he sat with Pigeon Pretty on his knee. "No, my friend," he said with great seriousness, "I have never tried it, and doubt if I could do it. I can dig with my hands, though," he added, seeing the good bear look more and more puzzled.

"Ah, yes!" said Bruin. "But you see this bird has no hands, though he has very ugly claws; so that doesn't help— Well!" he cried, breaking off short, and once more addressing the hawk. "I don't see anything for it but to wring your neck, do you? After all, it will keep you from being hungry again."

But here the soft voice of the wood-pigeon interposed. "No, no! Bruin, dear," cried the gentle bird. "Give him something to eat, and let him go. If he had eaten nothing for a week, I am sure he was not to blame for pursuing the first eatable creature he saw. Remember," she added in a lower tone, which only the bear could hear, "that before this winter, any of us would have done the same."

Bruin scratched his head helplessly; the hawk turned his yellow eyes on Pigeon Pretty with a strange look, but said nothing. But now the hermit saw that it was time for him to interfere.

"Pigeon Pretty," he said, "you are right, as usual. Bruin, my friend, bring your prisoner here, and let him finish this excellent broth, into which I have crumbled some bread. I will answer for Master Hawk's good behavior, for the present at least," he added, "for I know that he comes of an old and honorable family."

Wonder of wonders! In five minutes the hawk was sitting quietly on the hermit's knee, sipping broth, pursuing the floating bits of bread in the bowl, and submitting to have his soft black plumage stroked, with the best grace in the world. On the good man's other knee sat Pigeon Pretty, now quite recovered from her fright and fatigue, her soft eyes beaming with pleasure; while Bruin squatted opposite them, looking from one to the other, and assuring himself over and over again that Pigeon Pretty was "a most astonishing bird! 'pon my word, a most astonishing bird!"

His meal ended, the stranger wiped his beak politely on his feathers, plumed himself, and thanked his hosts for their hospitality, with a stately courtesy which contrasted strangely with his former sullen and ferocious bearing. The fierce glare was gone from his eyes, which were, however, still strangely bright; and with his glossy plumage smooth, and his head held proudly erect, he really was a noble-looking bird.

"Long is it, indeed," he said, "since any one has spoken a kind word to Ger-Falcon. It will not be forgotten, I assure you. We are a wild and lawless family,—our beak against every one, and every one's claw against us,—and yet, as you observed, Sir Baldhead, we are an old and honorable race. Alas! for the brave, brave days of old, when my sires were the honored companions of kings and princes! My grandfather seventy times removed was served by an emperor, the obsequious monarch carrying him every day on his own wrist to the hunting. He ate from a golden dish, and wore a collar of gems about his neck. Ah, me! what would be the feelings of that noble ancestor if he could see his descendant a hunted outlaw, persecuted by the sons of those very men who once courted and caressed him, and supporting a precarious existence by the ignoble spoils of barn-yards and hen-roosts!"

The hawk paused, overcome by these recollections of past glory, and the good bear said kindly,—

"Dear! dear! very sad, I'm sure. And how did this melancholy change come about, pray?"

"Fashion, my dear sir!" replied the hawk, "ignoble fashion! The race of men degenerated, and occupied themselves with less lofty sports than hawking. My family, left to themselves, knew not what to do. They had been trained to pursue, to overtake, to slay, through long generations; they were unfitted for anything else. But when they began to lead this life on their own account, man, always ungrateful, turned upon them, and persecuted them for the very deeds which had once been the delight and pride of his fickle race. So we fell from our high estate, lower and lower, till the present representative of the Ger-Falcon is the poor creature you behold before you."

The hawk bowed in proud humility, and his hearers all felt, perhaps, much more sorry for him than he deserved. The wood-pigeon was about to ask something more about his famous ancestors, when a shadow darkened the mouth of the cave, and Toto made his appearance, with the crow perched on his shoulder.

"Well, Mr. Baldhead!" he cried in his fresh, cheery voice, "how are you to-day, sir? Better still? I have brought you some—hello! who is this?" And catching sight of the stranger, he stopped short, and looked at the bear for an explanation.

"This is Mr. Ger-Falcon, Toto," said Bruin. "My friend Toto, Mr. Falcon." Toto nodded, and the hawk made him a stately bow; but the two looked distrustfully at each other, and neither seemed inclined to make any advances. Bruin continued,—

"Mr. Falcon came here in a—well, not in a friendly way at all, I must say. But he is in a very different frame of mind, now, and I trust there will be no further trouble."

"Do you ever change your name, sir?" asked Toto, abruptly, addressing the hawk.

"I do not understand you, sir!" replied the latter, haughtily. "I have no reason to be ashamed of my name."

"Perhaps not!" said the boy. "And yet I am tolerably sure that Mr. Ger-Falcon is no other than Mr. Chicken Hawkon, and that it was he who tried to carry off my Black Spanish chickens yesterday morning."

"You are right, sir!" said the hawk. "You are quite right! I was starving, and the chickens presented themselves to me wholly in the light of food. May I ask for what purpose you keep chickens, sir?"

"Why, we eat them when they grow up," said Toto; "but—"

"Ah, precisely!" murmured the hawk. "You eat them also. I thought so."

"But we don't steal other people's chickens," said the boy, "we eat our own."

"Precisely!" said the hawk, again. "You eat the tame, confiding creatures who feed from your hand, and stretch their necks trustfully to meet their doom. I, on the contrary, when the pangs of hunger force me to snatch a morsel of food to save me from starvation, snatch it from strangers, not from my friends."

Toto was about to make a hasty reply, but the bear, with a motion of his paw, checked him, and said gravely to the hawk,—

"Come, come! Mr. Falcon, I cannot have any dispute of this kind. There is some truth in what you say, and I have no doubt that emperors and other disreputable people have had a large share in forming the bad habits into which you and all your family have fallen. But those habits must be changed, sir, if you intend to remain in this forest. You must not meddle with Toto's chickens; you must not chase quiet and harmless birds. You must, in short, become a respectable and law-abiding bird, instead of a robber and a murderer."

"All very fine!" said the hawk, angrily. "But how am I to live, pray? I can be 'respectable,' as you call it, in summer; but in weather like this—"

"That can be easily managed," said the kind hermit. "You can stay with me, Falcon. I shall soon be able to shift for myself, and I will gladly undertake to feed you until the snow and frost are gone. You will be a companion for my crow— By the way, where is my crow? Surely he came in with you, Toto?"

"He did," said Toto, "but he hopped off the moment we entered. Didn't like the looks of the visitor, I fancy," he added in a low tone.

Search was made, and finally the crow was discovered huddled together, a disconsolate little bunch of black feathers, in the darkest corner of the cave.

"Come, Jim!" cried Toto, who was the first to catch sight of him. "Come out, old fellow! Why are you rumpling and humping yourself up in that absurd fashion?"

"Is he gone?" asked the crow, opening one eye a very little way, and lifting his head a fraction of an inch from the mass of feathers in which it was buried. "Good Toto, kind Toto, is he gone? I would not be eaten to-day, Toto, if it could be avoided. Did you say he was gone?"

"If you mean the hawk," said Toto, "he is not gone; and what is more, he isn't going, for your master has asked him to stay the rest of the winter. But cheer up, old boy! he won't hurt you. Bruin has bound him over to keep the peace, and you must come out and make the best of it."

The unhappy crow begged and protested, but all in vain. Toto caught him up, laughing, and carried him to his master, who set him on his knee, and smoothed his rumpled plumage kindly. The hawk, who was highly gratified by the hermit's invitation, put on his most gracious manner, and soon convinced the crow that he meant him no harm.

"A member of the ancient family of Corvus!" he exclaimed. "Contemporaries, and probably friends, of the early Falcons. Let us also be friends, dear sir; and let the names of James Crow and Ger-Falcon go down together to posterity."

But now Bruin and Pigeon Pretty were eager to hear all the home news from the cottage. They listened with breathless interest to Toto's account of the attempted robbery, and of Coon's noble "defence of the castle," as the boy called it. Miss Mary also received her full share of the credit, nor was the kettle excluded from honorable mention. When all was told, Toto proceeded to unpack the basket he had brought, which contained gingerbread, eggs, apples, and a large can of butter-milk marked "For Bruin." Many were the joyous exclamations called forth by this present of good cheer; and it seemed as if the old hermit could not sufficiently express his gratitude to Toto and his good grandmother.

"Oh, don't!" cried the boy, half distressed by the oft-repeated thanks. "If you only knew how we like it! It's so jolly, you know. Besides," he added, "I want you to do something for me now, Mr. Baldhead, so that will turn the tables. A shower is coming up, and it is early yet, so I need not go home for an hour. So, will you not tell us a story? We are very fond of stories,—Bruin and Pigeon Pretty and I."

"A story! a story!" cried every one, eagerly.

"A story, hey?" said the good hermit, smiling. "With all my heart, dear lad! And what shall the story be about?"

"About fairies!" replied Toto, promptly. "I have not heard a fairy story for a long time."

"So be it!" said the hermit, after a moment's reflection. "When I was a boy like you, Toto, I lived in Ireland, the very home of the fairy-folk; so I know more about them than most people, perhaps, and this is an Irish fairy story that I am going to tell you."

And settling himself comfortably on his moss-pillows, the hermit began the story of—