Jean M. Thompson

The Illustrations
by Warwick Reynolds
& Charles Copeland

Jonathan Cape
Eleven Gower Street, London

First Published, 1922
All Rights Reserved

Contents

CHAP.

"Whir, whir, whir," sounded the swish of many silken wings. The swallows had arrived from the South; thousands of them there were, long winged and dusky brown, with faintly russet breasts. So full of joyous bustle they were over their arrival, "cheep, cheep, cheeping," making a great clamour as they separated into colonies, seeking a home for the summer. The old red barn seemed to invite them; in fact, two colonies had a regular pitched battle over its possession, until at last the stronger band drove away the weaker, and took possession of the coveted spot. They swarmed into the old barn through small windows high in its peak, chattering together as they selected building sites. So great a clamour did the swallows make in the silence of the dim, old barn that they disturbed and finally awakened many who had not aroused themselves from their winter's torpor and sleep.

Far up in a distant peak of the barn, in a certain dim corner where a great rafter lapped, forming a secluded sort of shelf, there hung, stretched across the corner, an unusually large cobweb curtain. The old grey spider who had spun the web had abandoned it when cold weather came, and crawled down into the warm hay. Gradually thick dust collected upon the web curtain, and well it did, because behind it, upon the wide, dusty beam it covered, lay two torpid things, resembling nothing so much as two round balls of brown fur.

The strident chatter of the swallows had penetrated the small round ears of the two fur balls, perhaps, or it might have been the light from a stray yellow sunbeam, which at a certain hour of each day had a way of filtering through a crack and warming their retreat. At any rate, one of the torpid things began slowly to undo itself; a small, mouse-like head appeared, having round, delicate ears of membrane, which seemed rather too large for its head. Its eyes, when it opened them, were exactly like two jet-black beads, and its rather wide, pink mouth was liberally armed with tiny, saw-like teeth, which the fur ball showed as it yawned sleepily, stretching itself and spreading out its wings, to which were attached by a thin membrane its forearms and legs. Then, fully awake, it plunged straight through the cobweb curtain, tearing it apart from end to end, and sending back a sharp, encouraging squeak to the smaller fur ball to follow.

Of course the two ridiculous fur balls were just the bat family. The smaller, more timorous bat, soon followed her mate from behind the web curtain and joined him upon the broad beam. But so clumsy and half awake was she that the very first thing she did was to make a misstep and go pitching off the high beam into space. She landed upon the hay, fortunately, and then began the funniest sight. Did you ever chance to see a bat when it attempted to walk? They seldom use their feet, and when they do it is a droll sight.

As soon as Mrs. Bat recovered from her dizzy fall, she put forth one wing and a hind leg and began to walk toward a beam, for strangely enough she could not fly from so low an elevation, but must climb some distance in order to launch herself properly into the air. Hitching and tumbling along she finally reached a beam, and clutching it she began to climb it head downward, exactly as a woodpecker does. Then, having reached the desired height, she whirled away, and landed finally beside her mate.

The barn was a very silent place. The rasping of its rusty latch always gave ample time for all its little wild tenants to get under cover, so usually all you heard when you entered would be the hidden, lonely trill of a cricket or a faint, stealthy rustle in the hay.

Upon a broad beam far up over the loft where the oat straw was stored, lived rather an exclusive family, that of the barn owl. You would never have dreamed they were there, so well did the brown feathers of the owls blend with the dimness of the shadows. Under the grain bins, far down below, lived a large colony of fat rats, while in among the dried clover raced and romped shoals of field-mice who wintered there. But there was another, a new tenant, feared and shunned by all the others. He came from no one knew where exactly; still the farmer's boy might have explained, for he had lost a pet ferret.

The ferret was an ugly creature to look upon, its body long and snaky, and covered with yellowish-white, rather dirty-looking fur; its movements were sly and furtive, and somehow always struck terror to every tenant of the barn whenever they saw him steal forth. All winter the ferret had been there, and the hay was literally honeycombed with its secret tunnels, and woe to anything which happened to cross its evil trail.

Each evening soon after twilight the swallows would return to the barn from their raids, and when the shadows grew quite dusky far down beneath them, then the bats and the barn owl family would launch themselves out into the night.

"Squeak, squeak," ordered the big male bat; then like two shadows they would flit silently off upon their velvety wings. All during the early part of the night they chased gnats and moths, because they invariably got their best pickings before midnight. Before the dim shadows began to lift, the bats and owls had returned usually, but the bat family did not retire again behind their cobweb curtain; instead they hung themselves by their wing-claws head downward from the beam, folding their wings closely over their beady eyes, and thus they would sleep all day.

Warmer days came, and livelier times were stirring among the tenants of the barn. Far up on her own beam Mrs. Barn Owl tended and fed two young downy owlets faithfully. Of course the owl mother knew the beam to be quite a safe spot for baby owls, but somehow she distrusted the skulking old ferret, whom she occasionally caught sight of; besides, rats sometimes climb beams, and once, before the owl eggs had hatched, something had stolen one egg; so that is really why there were but two owlets instead of three.

The swallows were the busiest tenants, for each nest now held a circle of gaping, hungry mouths to feed. All day long, and far into twilight, the swallows were whirring incessantly, in and out. But up in the secret corner, partially hidden by the torn cobweb curtain, clung Mrs. Bat herself, and if you could only have peeped beneath one of her wings you might have seen the dearest little mite of a bat, with eyes of jet, clinging close to its mother's breast as she folded it tenderly beneath her wing. There the helpless little creature stayed, close to its mother, until it became older and stronger, for among all the tiny, fur-bearing animals there is no little mother more considerate of her young than the bat. And rather than leave the furry thing all alone upon the great beam when she had to go off for food, as she could not carry it beneath her wing in flight, she would make a kind of little basket cradle by spreading out her wing, and thus the baby bat would ride with its mother, clinging close to her back with its wing hooks and tiny teeth, and he never fell from the wing basket nor was he afraid.

When the young owlets were out of the pin-feather stage they began to go out with the old ones. But once when they were left behind, sitting huddled together upon their beam, when the mother owl came back only one small, chuckle-faced owlet remained. Hunt as she might, the robber had left no clue behind. However, her suspicions centred upon the sly old ferret and she took to watching his movements more than ever. There she would sit, sullen and revengeful, far up among the shadows and beams, with her one owlet. She frequently saw the sinuous, snake like body of the ferret creep forth, and even caught the sound of his peculiarly hateful hiss when he encountered anything in his path. Once, in a great fury she swooped clear down to the barn floor after her enemy, but she got there a second too late. The sly creature had heard the swish of the owl's wings when she left the beam, and caught a fleeting glimpse of her blazing yellow eyes, so he hastily slid into the nearest runway, and the owl flew back to her beam defeated; but she never forgot, she simply waited.

More and more bold became the raids of the hateful old ferret. He robbed the swallows' nests; frequently you might see his dirty-white, sinuous body stealing across some high beam, creeping, creeping warily, arching his back, holding his snaky head high, one foot gathered up, looking for an unguarded nest; then if he found one, he would arch his snaky neck over the edge of the nest and suck every egg.

Velvet Wings, the young bat, grew very fast. He foraged for himself now, for his wings were as broad and fleet as his mother's. Sometimes, however, he made a clumsy start and so got many a fall. So one night as he started forth he fell fluttering and squeaking and protesting, until with a soft thud he landed far below upon the barn floor. Completely stunned Velvet Wings lay there, his wings outspread and helpless, his little heart beating so hard it shook his whole body. Of course he saw nothing, so did not notice the peaked snout of the sly old ferret as he peered inquisitively forth from his lair in the hay to see what the soft thud might be. The next instant the ferret had Velvet Wings in his cruel mouth, but instead of devouring him at once he began to have some fun with the poor bat, tossing it in the air, then pouncing upon it as it fell, mauling it as a cat does a mouse, pinning its wings down with both fore feet. A second more and Velvet Wings would have been lost, but that second was not allowed the ferret; for far up among the brown rafters a pair of great, blazing yellow eyes had been watching, and like a rocket from above fell the old mother owl, clear to the barn floor. "Swish, swish," went her great wings, as she buried her talons in the back of the dirty-white fur coat. With a twist of his snaky, supple body, the ferret managed to free himself a second from that awful clutch, and, arching its back, it began to slip away. But the owl was too quick; landing upon the ferret's back, she took another, firmer hold and bore him, struggling and snarling, aloft.

Down through the centre of the old barn a broad sunbeam entered. It left a long bar of light through the dimness of the dusky place. The barn was strangely silent, hushed, but many bright eyes had witnessed the tragedy and were watching to see the end, but all that they finally saw was just a few wisps of white fur, which came floating lazily down through the bar of light. It appeared not unlike floating thistle-down, but it had come from the owl's nest, and was the last they ever saw of their enemy, the sly old ferret.

Up there in the dim shadows of the old red barn you'll find them all, and should the yellow beam of sunlight happen to dance across their dark hiding-place, you may plainly see the bat family. There they all hang through the day, looking for all the world like a row of small velvet bags, their bright eyes shrouded by their soft wings as they sleep, head downward; while off in quite another corner, perched upon her own dusty beam drowses the brave barn owl and her one chuckle-headed owlet.

Lhoks, the panther, peered sullenly and discontentedly forth from behind bars of his cage at the curious crowd of people who stared in at him, and baring his sharp white teeth angrily, snarled at them crossly. Again he resumed his uneasy pad, pad, padding walk, up and down the narrow floor of his prison, which, with six other similar gaily painted cages occupied by other unfortunate wild animals, belonged to a small travelling menagerie.

Lhoks was a handsome animal, and the boys and girls who gathered in crowds around his cage gazed at him with round eyes of admiring awe. He happened to be a very large specimen of his kind, measuring about eleven feet in length. His coat was reddish-brown, now grown somewhat shabby, owing to his long confinement in the narrow cage. A small patch of white fur marked either side of his muzzle. His snarling lips showed jet black, also the tip of his tail, which he lashed angrily. His eyes, which Lhoks half closed when angry or cross, were of gleaming greenish yellow, showing golden lights. Over his cage door one might read: "Panther, or American Lion."

It happened three years before, that Lhoks and two other small panther cubs had been left alone by the old panthers, who went off to hunt; feeling lonely, but full of mischief and play, they came out of their safe den, to frolic upon a wide flat ledge. There upon the rock they all played together happily, rolling over each other and cuffing with their clumsy kitten-like paws. And there the hunter came across them, and so young and unafraid were the small panthers that they allowed the man to carry them off. When the old panthers returned to the den it was quite empty; their babies were gone. For days and days they followed vainly the long trail of the robber, with red, revengeful eyes, but they never caught up with him.

Two of the cubs died in captivity, but Lhoks, stronger and more lusty than the others, lived. For three years he had travelled with the menagerie, but he hated the life, and with all the longing in his heart he would dream, in his wild way, of the dark, sweet scented woods, the safe retreats where he might hide in secret, silent places of his forest. Most of all did he hate the blare of the loud music, which made him howl, and deeply too did he resent the staring eyes of the curious crowds. Sullenly he would glower back at them. Often he felt weak and sick in the close confining quarters of his hated cage; so much so, that he would stretch out his tawny body miserably upon the floor and lie there for hours. But alas for poor Lhoks during show hours, should he chance to appear stupid and sleepy and ill when the people came to stare at him! Then someone was sure to reach into his cage with a long red pole, to the end of which was attached a cruel, sharp spike, and then they would poke and prod the poor animal until he got upon his feet. Just one sharp prod of the spike was usually enough to make Lhoks jump up and snarl and begin once more his endless pacing back and forth, from end to end of his prison.

Then the delighted crowd would shiver and exclaim at his dreadful fierceness, and often poke him playfully with canes or umbrellas, just to make him yell loudly. The howls of Lhoks the panther were terrifying, and when he screamed out it usually stirred up all the other animals of the menagerie.

If Lhoks hated the crowds, he soon learned to dread most of all the long, overland journeys by rail. Then the cages would all be loaded upon goods trucks, and for days they would rumble and jolt and sway dizzily in their close, ill-smelling quarters; if water was not handy, sometimes the attendants neglected them, and forgot that the poor caged things were very thirsty. Often at the end of a trip they arrived faint, car-sick, and so exhausted they were barely able to stagger to their cramped legs.

The season for the menagerie was drawing to its close, and they were about to go East for the winter. The glittering cages had been opened to the public for the last time in a small Western town, where the wondering boys and girls had taken their last look at Lhoks, the panther, and his wild companions. The last cage had been loaded upon the truck, and the long, heavy train started out upon its journey. Old King, the lion, had died, and most of the other animals showed only too plainly the effects of their long confinement and hard life. The tawny coat of poor Lhoks was shabbiest of all. It actually looked moth-eaten in places, and his sides showed plainly enough the scars which the sharp spike had made. His ribs were seen through his lean hide, for he had almost lost his appetite; he felt weak and discouraged. So he just lay stretched listlessly upon the floor of his cage, while the long train jolted and screamed its way across the flat country of the West. Fortunately, the cage of the panther had been placed in such a position that Lhoks soon discovered that by standing upon his hind legs he could actually peer out through his small, grated window at the country through which they journeyed. In this respect, he was more lucky than the others, for the gazelle and hyena cages had been placed with their small, ventilating windows pushed up against the other cages, so they could not look out.

For many days, whenever Lhoks chanced to look forth from his small window, they appeared to be passing over the same flat, uninteresting plain, although occasionally he caught a fleeting glimpse of forest and hills in the distance. At night he would lie flat gazing up longingly, managing to catch a peep at the little winking stars, and sometimes, when it was bright moonlight, he would grow very restless and unhappy, pacing up and down, howling dismally. How he hated the commotion and loud noises about the goods yards, when their train was shunted back and forth over points, creaking and squealing, with much loose rattling of rusty iron couplings, and yells from the railwaymen, who swung red-eyed lanterns, and ran swiftly and lightly over the tops of the cages.

Finally, after many weary days, for their train was a very slow one, Lhoks began to brighten up, for the air which now found its way into his close cage had begun to change and freshen; now he would stand at his small, barred window and sniff in long drafts of it with keen delight. Also, Lhoks saw that they had now left the disagreeable, flat country, and were speeding through wild forests, where giant spruce and pines grew dense and tall. Off in the distance there were glimpses of purple chains of mountains, and rolling, peaceful hills. From that time on, Lhoks became a changed animal; as by magic all his weariness appeared to vanish; he was once more himself, wild and alert. All night he would stand now at the window just breathing in the tonic of this fine, new air, the bracing odours which came from thousands of fragrant balsams and pines. For, although Lhoks did not suspect it, he happened to be passing, at that time, right through the very heart of his own home country, the land where perhaps even then his parents were still roving wild and free through the hidden jungles of the great North woods.

The long, snake-like train rumbled and screeched its way through the night, hooting and echoing through the deep mountain cuts, then gliding out over long moonlit stretches, where moist odours from the woods came in waves to poor Lhoks in his prison cage.

"Chuck, chuck, chuck-chuck, chuck," repeated the iron truck wheels, over and over again, almost like the rhythm of some tiresome song. Then, suddenly, on ahead, the great engine began to send forth hoot after hoot, strange alarm cries, whistlings and screechings which echoed through the silent forest. Lhoks instinctively knew something had happened, and leaped to his feet. The next moment the heavy truck, cages and all, had been tossed from the rails and lay a splintered mass at the foot of a deep cutting.

Something wonderful happened to Lhoks, the panther, for his cage had chanced to fall right side up, and one wall of it had actually fallen out; he was free—free at last. It took a few seconds for the poor wild thing to discover that he was a prisoner no longer, after spending so many long, hateful years in his close cage. But very soon all his old, wild nature asserted itself, and he made out that there were tall waving pines all about him, instead of walls and iron bars, and beneath a dense, black jungle of spruce—fine places to hide. Gathering up all his strength, with one long leap Lhoks, the captive, bounded off to his freedom and the shelter of the woods.

Of course, in the excitement which followed the wreck, no one thought of looking for the panther; for, as it happened, he was the only animal which had managed to escape alive. Lhoks could not travel so very fast at first, for he had a touch of rheumatism, and his legs were almost stiff from long confinement, while his usually sharp claws were quite worn off and dulled. So he skulked along the ground, hiding himself in some deep, wooded retreat far away from the shouts of the railwaymen. Having rested he finally began to take some interest in his appearance, groomed his roughened coat and sharpened his dull claws upon a log. Suddenly he realized that he was hungry. Oh, how delightedly did he quench his thirst at a beautiful, fern-grown pool. Then one day he discovered the trail of a lone wood-cutter and followed it for hours, because he began to feel lonely, and also was hungry. Perhaps he imagined that the man would feed him, as had his keeper. It was lucky for poor, trusting Lhoks that the man did not spy him, or he might have been shot, for the man would surely have supposed the panther was trailing him for its prey.

Lhoks forsook the man's trail finally, and that day he managed to catch a rabbit, which served him very well. For weeks so wandered the poor, solitary panther all alone over the wild forest trails. Each day fresh strength and courage came to him; already his tawny coat had lost its roughness; the new hair was coming in, filling the deep scars upon his sides with soft, fine fur. Suddenly he began to feel so very happy that for sheer playfulness, and because of his loneliness, he would play kittenishly, rolling and pawing about a round stone which he found; springing high in the air he would often chase his own shadow down the moonlit trails; occasionally, he would strive to gain some almost forgotten scent, then he would lift his black muzzle and utter a long, lonely yell—a cry in the night, once heard, never forgotten, this yell of a panther—just a pleading cry for his lost companions for whom he yearned.

Once Lhoks met with an encounter which he never forgot. He happened upon a round ball of curious appearance which lay right in his path, and feeling in a playful mood, he boldly jumped at the thing, tossing it about. Then suddenly the bundle unrolled itself, an ugly blunt snout appeared, and two sullen angry eyes glared at him insolently. Before he could back away, a prickly tail slapped him smartly right across his soft, black muzzle, and it was filled with quills. After that, Lhoks, the panther, never forgot how Unk-Wunk, the porcupine, looked when he rolled himself into a ball and went to sleep upon the trail. It became harder to find food down in the lowlands, so Lhoks took to the mountain passes, and thus it happened, one memorable day, he chanced upon a strangely familiar, alluring scent. For a day he trailed it, drawing gradually nearer and nearer, and as he found the scent keener, Lhoks began to feel greatly excited, filled with courage and hope, for he had stumbled across an old trail of one of his own kindred.

Peter Possum was in great trouble, for he had lost his mate. No wonder that he felt strangely lonely and sad. Most of the opossum tribe are noted for their love of family and companionship. Peter had been born and reared in the South, right in the heart of a great cypress swamp, an ideal spot for the home of any possum. Dark and lonely was the swamp jungle, with its tall pines and giant gum and cypress trees, beneath which lay trackless thickets of thorn and holly, while trailing in long, snaky lengths over all, grew matted bamboo vines and hanging mosses which looked like long grey beards.

Months before, Peter and his mate had built for themselves a deep, new nest down in the hollow heart of a giant cypress tree. And now what worried Peter most of all was that, wherever Mrs. Possum now might be, she had carried away their eleven little possum babies with her in her velvet-lined pouch or pocket which she wore for that especial purpose in her side.

Not until all the little possums were large enough to be trusted outside alone would their fond mother allow them to leave this velvet-lined pouch. The little possums, when she went away, were just about the size of mice, with sharp, pink noses, tiny wriggling tails, bits of beady, black eyes, and the softest, mole-like fur coats. Little helpless things they were. No wonder, then, that Peter was full of anxiety and almost dazed over the mysterious disappearance of all his family. Vainly he searched for them all through the swamp in their usual haunts, but no trace could he discover of Mrs. Possum and her pocketful of little possums.

It had been two whole nights now since Mrs. Possum had been away from the home nest. As Mrs. Possum had a habit of going off alone occasionally, Peter had not thought much about it the first night she was away, for, to tell the truth, that same night he had taken a secret trip into the far end of the swamp, just to see if a certain gnarled, old persimmon tree which he happened to remember was going to bear fruit that year.

So off Peter had started, all by himself. It was very pleasant to stroll through the swamp on a moonlight night, and really Peter travelled much farther than he had intended. Suddenly, right in the direction of his home tree, he heard a horrible din which actually made his long, wavy grey fur rise right up from his fat back.

"Wow-wow-ooo-oo-o!" It was the hounds, they were out in full cry; they were scouring the swamp for possums or racoons. Peter was thankful now that he was not at home. Surely, he thought, Mrs. Possum, whom he had left at home with the eleven little possums, would have tact enough not to show even the tip of her sharp snout outside the nest while the hounds were about. But in spite of all this, Peter was uneasy about his family; so, without even finding out if the old persimmon tree would bear fruit that season, he made a bee-line for home.

"Wow-oow, ow, ow, ooo!" Again the hounds bayed, and close at hand this time. Peter laid his small black ears tight to his head, as he streaked in and out of the tangled jungles, looking like a glint of something silvery when the moonbeams struck against his grey fur coat. Suddenly the hounds leaped right out in plain sight of Peter. Instantly he had spied them—three yellow terrors with their long flappy ears, eager, dribbling jaws, and red, bleary eyes, which could spy out a coon or possum, no matter how tall a tree he had climbed into to hide.

This happened to be a lucky night for Peter, and he managed to save his grey pelt, reaching his home tree before the moon went down.

He began to hitch and claw his way up the tree, not too hurriedly, because Peter was very fat. A fat possum cannot climb a large tree trunk very fast; that is why a possum, if he is big and fat, will usually select a small tree when he wishes to climb out of danger very quickly. When Peter got up to the entrance of the nest, the grey, furry face of Mrs. Possum, with its round gentle eyes, was not there to greet him as usual. When he climbed down deep into the nest, no soft warm body was there to break his fall, and no gentle welcoming growl did he hear; the nest was cold and empty.

At first, Peter fancied that she had simply gone out of the nest to get a breath of fresh air, and perhaps allow the little possums to get a view of the swamp by moonlight, so he didn't worry so very much about her absence. Instead, he just rolled himself up and took a nap, expecting any minute to be awakened by the coming of his mate, when she rolled heavily down into the nest. At daybreak Peter awoke and still Mrs. Possum had not returned. Now Peter, in his funny possum way, was fond of his family, so instead of sleeping all that day, as he usually did, he started out to look for them. First, he took a peep away down below from the edge of the nest; everything was already beginning to wake up for the day. Peter watched his hated neighbours, two old black buzzards, start off, and actually dodged quickly back into the nest as their great shabby, rag-like wings swept close to his grey coat. Once, when the buzzard family were away, and there were eggs in their nest, Peter and his mate were foolish enough to visit their untidy home, to which the old birds returned before Peter and his mate could get away, and then one horrid old buzzard, with a twist of its ugly, skinny neck had "unswallowed" its breakfast upon Peter's fine fur coat. Such is the disgusting habit of all the buzzard tribe, and one such experience was enough for Peter; he never went near the buzzards again.

After the scavenger birds had disappeared from sight, Peter climbed high up into the top of his tree, where he could look far across the swamp. He saw away off beyond the swamp, the plantations, stretching as far as the eye could reach, and criss-crossing them in all directions the deep irrigation ditches, where one might wander for miles, and become lost as in a city of many streets.

Finally Peter went back into the nest again; there he slept all day, expecting to hear the welcome scratching of Mrs. Possum's claws upon the tree trunk any moment. But in vain; she did not come. Had she been caught by the hounds?

At sunset Peter watched the buzzards come sailing back home for the night and settle themselves in their soiled feathers, looking just like two black bundles of rags clinging among the tufted pines. Then the whip-poor-wills away down close to the ground, hidden among the thorn tangles, began their lonely calls. And at last, unable to bear the loneliness a minute longer, Peter slid hastily down the tree into the shadows. Soon the moon, which was now big and yellow, came peeping through the dark pines, lighting up the dark places and finally, to his great joy, Peter actually stumbled upon the trail of his lost mate.

Poor thing! She had not been able to travel very fast because she carried the eleven little possums in her pouch, so it was easy to follow her tracks, as her heavy body had left certain deep impressions in the soft moss. He discovered many places where she had stopped to rest—deep, round hollows; perhaps she had lain low to keep away from the hounds. Peter followed her trail patiently, and at last he came to the edge of the plantations crossed by the maze of ditches, almost as deep as two men are high. Then Peter's troubles and trials began at the first ditch. He found where his mate had entered a ditch, gone over it for a long distance, then turned off uncertainly into still another ditch, finally coming back again to the very place she had started from. Oh, it was a very easy matter indeed to lose one's way in the perplexing ditches, and so all the next day Peter travelled hopefully up and down them, searching everywhere for his lost family. There was not much to eat in the ditches, although, when very hard pressed by hunger, an opossum will eat anything. Opossums, you know, are really night scavengers. But you may be certain that the unpleasant old buzzards who float all day over the plantations, watching the ditches, had left little which a possum might care to eat.

Next day Peter climbed out of the ditches and hid himself in a very thick holly tree, trusting that its prickly leaves would conceal him while he rested. When twilight came, again he took up his search in the ditches. Bravely poor Peter searched them night after night. Occasionally he came across a trap which some negro labourer had placed in the mouth of a ditch, hoping to catch a coon. But Peter managed to keep his feet out of them.

Up and down, up and down, wearily searched the faithful Peter, occasionally filled with great hope, for the scent which he followed would appear quite fresh and near, but the next moment he lost all clue again. At last, in spite of himself, Peter had almost made up his mind to the terrible thought that his little grey-coated mate had been trapped, or perhaps she had become bewildered and lost her way in some deep, dark hole, finally perishing of hunger. Of course the little possums weighed her down heavily, so she could never climb up out of the ditches.

Peter very sadly and reluctantly made up his mind to give up his vain search and go back to the swamps again. But they say "'Tis always darkest before dawn," and that very night, when he was about to give up, he struck into an unusually deep ditch. A stray moonbeam filtered down into the dark hole, lighting up the path ahead for some distance. Then, all of a sudden, Peter thought he saw something moving toward him; perhaps it was a coon, for dearly the coons love to roam through the broom-corn ditches when the young corn is in the milk. The longer Peter looked at the thing coming toward him, however, the less did it appear like a coon, and somehow, it seemed strangely familiar to him—the heavy swaying, waddling body; and the next moment Peter saw, where the moonlight struck it, the thing was all silvery grey. The reason Peter did not recognise his little mate in the first place, for indeed it was Mrs. Possum herself, was just this:

It seems that the eleven little possum babies had been gone so long, they had now quite outgrown their mother's pocket, and so she had let them all climb out upon her broad, silvery back. And in order to keep them together safely, she showed each little possum that by curling its tail tight around her own long, muscular one, which she carried over her back, it might ride in safety. In this fashion Mrs. Possum herself waddled hopefully up and down the long, maze-like ditches, vainly looking for an outlet.

"Grr-r-r-r," rumbled the delighted Peter, recognising his mate, and greeting her in his queer possum way by rubbing his black nose fondly against Mrs. Possum's black, pointed snout. Then Peter and his mate with the eleven little possum children still clinging to her back turned about, and Peter found the right road at last, which led them all straight back to the swamp.

Back in the jungles they found themselves after a long, weary journey. They were very happy to be once more among their jolly neighbours, the racoons, sniffing again the sweet scented woods, the yellow jasmine flowers, listening again to catch the soft, sweet notes of their friends, the mocking-birds, who sang their beautiful trills in the moonlight. Peter and his mate were even glad to see their unpleasant neighbours again, the buzzards, who actually craned their skinny necks curiously, watching the return of Mrs. Possum and her large family as she climbed back into the cypress tree.

The persimmons on the old, gnarled persimmon tree are growing plumper and riper; it needs but a light touch of Jack Frost to make them tasty. Then Peter Possum and his mate, with the eleven possum babies, who by that time will be able to travel alone, are planning to have a grand feast, far away from the dreaded plantation ditches, right in the safe shelter of their dear old swamp.

Once upon a time the minnow family had been a very large one, for there were fifteen of the children by actual count; but one day a cruel net was dropped lightly into the brook, and twelve of them were scooped up and taken away. All that remained were Father and Mother Minnow, Baby Minnow, and the Twins.

It was such a delightful brook where the minnow family lived—one of the kind which runs along quietly for a short way, then suddenly bursts into little laughing ripples, bubbling, foaming, and hurrying along madly, as though it were trying to race away from itself. The brown bed of the brook was all paved with wonderful pebbles, and when the sun shone down upon them they sparkled just like fairy jewels. Oh, quite wonderful are the hidden treasures of the brook! It is filled with queer, interesting brook people.

The black and yellow turtle family lived beneath a tussock of coarse grass just at the bend of the brook, where the limb of an old tree had fallen, and lay half submerged in the water. Quite convenient it was, too, for the turtles; one would usually find some of them sunning upon the log; and when they all came out, they made a long line quite across the log, and frequently jostled each other "plump" off into the deep water.

Below, in a dark, still place, all day long the "lucky bug" family darted stupidly and aimlessly to and fro upon the mirror-like surface; and just above, under the roots of an old willow tree, whose snaky roots projected far into the water, lived Mr. and Mrs. Muskrat, and their three young ones. Beneath a flat rock, which shelved out into the water further down-stream, where it was deep, still, and mysteriously shadowy, two large fierce pickerel had their haunts; regular robbers and bandits they were, who made their living by preying upon everything which came within their reach. There were endless other families, all more or less interesting, which lived upon the banks, or within the brown waters of the brook.

But this time I am going to tell you about the minnows. In spite of the cruel net, which of course broke up the family, the minnows were about the jolliest family living in the brook. Father and Mother Minnow were very old and wise. They had wonderfully large, green bulging eyes, which looked not unlike green glass marbles, and could detect the approach of an enemy yards away. Then they would whisk out of sight in an instant, under the nearest stone, remaining right there until the danger passed.

Next in importance came the Twins, and they were so precisely alike that only their mother could really tell them apart. She knew quite well that one of them wore an extra speckle of brown upon his right side. The Twins were for ever getting into scrapes, and were full of mischievous pranks, which caused their parents no end of anxiety. Because they were so full of curiosity about everything, these Twins had to investigate any strange thing which entered the brook; this, in spite of oft-repeated warnings from their parents. I must not forget to mention the baby, a little bit of a slim, brown minnow, and so very timid that he seldom left his mother's side.

One day the minnows were all swimming together happily down-stream, pausing occasionally to exchange pleasant greetings with their neighbours. Just as they were passing the coarse grass tussock, Mrs. Spotted-Turtle stuck her head out between the grasses to tell them of an accident which had befallen one of her family, the youngest; one of his feet had been bitten off by the cruel old pickerel who lived down stream.

So very much interested were Mr. and Mrs. Minnow in listening to this sad story that they forgot to keep a watchful eye upon the Twins, who, as soon as they discovered that they were not being watched, darted fleetly off and were soon out of sight around a bend of the brook. They longed for strange, new adventures, thrilling things, and were quite mad with joy to be out of sight of the kind, watchful eyes of their parents, whom they considered unduly fussy and strict. Baby Minnow attempted to follow the Twins, but soon gave up and just waited under the edge of a pebble until his parents should join him.

Off and away darted the Twins; so swiftly did they travel that their slim sides flashed through the water like arrows of gold and silver. Wild with delight and freedom they often gave little sudden leaps and skips quite out of the water. They mischievously and wilfully swam in among the "lucky bug" family, scattering them far and wide, until the foolish things completely lost their heads, darting confusedly in all directions. The Twins even forgot to watch the spot where a pair of cruel jaws armed with sharp teeth usually lay in wait for them, snapping dangerously as they passed by the pickerel's den. But he did not catch them, because they were swimming too rapidly for the sly old fellow, who had been napping and was sluggish in his movements.

A whole drove of pale yellow butterflies joined the Twins just above the pickerel hole, and kept them company a long distance downstream, dancing merrily along over the water until a robin flew in among them and scattered them in all directions. Oh, they were never lonely upon their way; there was plenty of company. Musically hummed the blue, lace wings of a team of giant dragon-flies which escorted them for some distance. As the dragon-flies spent too much time darting for gnats, the Twins left them far behind. Soon they were a long way down-stream. The brook was full of surprises for them, as it gradually widened, and the sweet-flags and cat-tails grew tall and dense to the very edge of the water. They travelled less swiftly and swam in and out of the shallows, investigating the jewelled pebbles, aimlessly nibbling in a bed of watercress. Finally they paused to rest and take a leisurely view of their new surroundings.

Just in the edge of the water directly in front of them, near the watercress patch, suddenly they espied a strange, glittering object. Never in their lives had the Twins seen anything like this thing before them. Larger than any pebble it was and far more beautiful. They knew about scoop-nets, and for a time viewed the strange thing before them with misgivings. However, it failed to move, so they sidled cautiously nearer and nearer. Perhaps it was something good to eat, and they were decidedly hungry. It felt smooth and cool to the touch as they brushed it with their fins. Wonderful! There was an opening at one end, but it was not a mouth, because there were no teeth; therefore it would not bite.

Finally, one Twin poked his head boldly into the opening and entered. Strangely enough his twin could plainly see him upon the other side of the object. He signalled with one fin for his brother to join him, that all was safe, nothing to fear, and then both the Minnow Twins went right inside the glass jar, for that was what it was. In an instant the boy who owned the glass jar had pulled the string which was tied about its neck, only the foolish minnows had not seen it, and the next moment they were captives.

Frantically they dashed about the glass prison, bumping their noses cruelly, until at last, quite exhausted by their efforts to get free, they finally lay panting at the bottom of the jar. Occasionally they would rise to the top for air, but oh, how miserably unhappy they were. They could picture to themselves even now the agony of mind their parents and little brother endured as they searched frantically behind every pebble to find their wayward children.

They longed, oh, so sadly, for their beloved brook with its shady haunts, to lie basking in the clear water which the sun warmed pleasantly, while their neighbours sang sweetly above them—the bluebird, the thrush, and hundreds of other birds which charmed and entertained them all day long when they came to bathe in the brook.

The water in the fruit-jar was rapidly growing stale and lifeless. The Twins realised that they could not live there very long. What would be their sad fate? Cautiously they looked from their glass prison; the boy was no longer in sight. Soon all became dark about them and they knew it was night. Doubtless their parents and little brother were dreaming peacefully deep down in the cool, dark waters of the brook in a favourite nook beneath some broad lily leaf.

Next morning the Twins were barely alive; they lay gasping weakly. Suddenly a great striped paw armed with hooked claws was thrust down into the jar which it overturned, Minnow Twins and all, and the Twins thought their last moment had come. Then the boy appeared and they heard him say:

"Hi, there, Pussy, you rogue. Clear out. You're trying to steal my minnows that I worked so hard to catch for bait. Get out!"

The boy put the minnows back into the jar and poured fresh water upon them, which served to revive them wonderfully. Another boy finally appeared carrying a tin pail in which he had many other unfortunate minnows.

"I know a fine place to fish," he exclaimed; "there's an awful big pickerel lives right under a great, flat stone, down near the swimming hole. Come on; let's go and try for him."

It was a very hot day, and by the time the boys reached the brook they had decided to take a little swim in a certain deep hole, down by the willows, so they set the pail and jar carefully on a stone beside the brook. They were in such a rush to get undressed and plunge into the water that they had a race to see which should get in first.

Thus it happened that one boy in pulling off his shoe aimed it carelessly at the fruit-jar. Over it toppled with a jingling crash, and the next instant the Minnow Twins were back in the brook and had darted out of sight under a stone. Here they lay just a few seconds, because they felt a little weak after their confinement. At last they stole cautiously forth, and as good luck would have it found themselves right in a little bed of mint. They nibbled greedily of the healing mint roots, and soon the wonderful tonic made them quite strong again. Whisking off and looking warily to right and left, they started in the direction of their old haunts.

Soon dear, familiar landmarks began to appear. They hailed with delight the form of old Mrs. Muskrat, grey and fat, sitting upon the bank scolding her children crossly through her whiskers. Their little friend, the water wag-tail bird, came tiptoeing in and out of the brook, searching every pebble for bugs, just as she always did day after day. She gave a droll little flirt, a sort of welcome, with her funny little tail as the Minnow Twins slid quickly by. The grey squirrels were chasing each other up and down the tree trunks merrily, and surely—yes, far up-stream, they caught sight of the old, familiar log, which lay just below the grass tussock, and right there Mrs. Spotted-Turtle and her family lay sunning themselves, ranged in a long line down the log. All the little turtles craned their scaly, spotted necks over the log as the minnows passed under, and one of the turtles which recognised the Twins flopped off the log in his excitement into deep water.

Quickly the Twins passed on and soon they arrived at the familiar bend where the white birch hung, dipping its silvery leaves into the brook. Two chubby, glistening minnows closely followed by a little bit of a slim baby minnow darted out to meet the homesick Twins. They were made welcome with rejoicing and much nose-rubbing right back into the bosom of the minnow family once more.

That night all the minnows rested quietly far down in the bottom of the brook just beneath the protection of a large flat stone. The whip-poor-wills came as they always did every evening to sing their lullaby songs on the top of the old rail fence near, and everything was peaceful and beautiful once more. If you tread very carefully and lightly through the long grasses bordering the brook and peer down into a certain nook perhaps you may be able to discover the entire minnow family some day. You may be sure of the very spot if you look for the old log, the grass tussock, and you may see some of the yellow-spotted turtle family sunning themselves, if you have good luck.

The remains of a large camp-fire smouldered, right in the heart of a forest of giant spruces far up in the North country. It had smouldered there sullenly all through a long, summer day, being left by the campers to die of its own accord. By this time they were far away, striking a new trail through the woods.

Night was coming on now. Down in the still, dark places, stealthy sounds, rustlings, and padded footsteps might be heard along wild trails, for with the coming of darkness the prowlers, who forage best at night, were beginning to stir abroad. Certain dark, shambling figures—one, two, three—came shuffling across a streak of moonlit forest. It was Moween, the little black mother bear and her two cubs. They had come down from their mountain den to hunt in the deep forest lowlands and swamps. Redbrush, the old fox, hit the trail in hot haste; he had scented wonderful game, perhaps a covey of plump, sleeping partridges. Impatiently he made a sudden, wide detour, even crossing a brook and wetting his feet, which he disliked, just to avoid meeting a cross old lynx whom he despised. Two cottontails, also scenting both fox and lynx, leaped high over the tops of the rank brakes and bounded off in another direction with long leaps, halting to lie flat, trembling and panting, staying there concealed until the dreaded ones had gone on. It happened that what the cottontails had imagined to be a lynx or Redbrush, the fox, was only Unk-Wunk, the porcupine, grubbing unconcernedly over the trail, grunting to himself monotonously his "unk-wunk, unk-wunk," rattling his quills softly as he crept leisurely in and out among the tall ferns, fearing neither man nor beast.

Occasionally he would halt to root, pig fashion, beneath some rotten log for grubs or wake-robin roots, for which he had a great desire. Then again he would stop, and standing upon his hind legs he would reach up and strip off the bark from some young, tender sapling with his sharp teeth. Not very far behind Unk-Wunk followed another porcupine, his mate. She was somewhat smaller in size and less aggressive and also, if possible, just a trifle more stupid-looking and droll than he. In fact, she would actually pass right by some really choice morsel which she wished keenly, just because it happened to be a little outside the range of her small, dull piggy eyes. So, often Unk-Wunk would stop to nose out food for her, for she usually depended upon him to locate the meals for both of them, and he seldom failed her.

To-night Unk-Wunk was very keen upon a new trail, but you would never have suspected it from his manner, because he never hurried. Still, if you knew him very well indeed, you might detect that his gait was rather more confident than usual, that in spite of his devious turnings aside, he always returned again to the same trail. All day the two porcupines had slept well in the round, deeply hollowed-out hole of a spruce tree, and between naps Unk-Wunk had watched with growing interest a thin, blue spiral of smoke as it filtered and wavered through the tops of the tall spruces far above. Upon several occasions the porcupine had seen similar trails of mysterious blue smoke, and whenever, out of sheer curiosity, he had followed the smoke to its lair, always had he been repaid for his long journey, because smoke usually meant a camp, and campers recklessly threw away much food, more especially bones, bacon rinds, and even, pieces of mouldy pork or ham.

So Unk-Wunk, the wise one, lifted his blunt muzzle from time to time and sniffed deeply of the faint, delicious odours which sudden winds blew in whiffs from the far-off camp. As soon as it commenced to grow dusky down below, Unk-Wunk grunted to his mate to follow, and together they started off upon their raids.

Naturally selfish of nature and secretive is the porcupine, and when an inquisitive intruder ventured to cross Unk-Wunk's trail, he would hold his own ground, never stirring from his tracks, but, standing sullenly in the path, force everything to turn out for him. Or, should they presume to show courage enough to face him, he would simply drop right down in his tracks, roll himself into the well-known prickly ball, and let them come on. This they usually decided not to do in the end, for most wanderers along the trails were not deceived; well they knew that out of his small, dull-appearing eyes Unk-Wunk was craftily watching their every movement, waiting for them to come near enough to him to slap them with his barb-laden tail.

Thus Unk-Wunk and his mate grubbed along, not too hurriedly, which would have been a mistake, for some other watcher might have its curiosity aroused and follow them, and they would perhaps be compelled to share their find with another. Finally following devious trails, the porcupines reached the deserted camp. Unk-Wunk was glad there was no one there, because once, when he had gnawed very loudly, a sleeping man had been awakened and fired a gun at him.

Wandering in and out among the blackened embers groped Unk-Wunk, grunting impatiently while nosing over a pile of empty tins cans. But soon, to his joy, he discovered a bone which he rasped and rasped, pushing away his mate when she presumed to touch it. Next, oh, joy, he found a long bacon rind. He actually fought with his mate for this, forcing her to go back to a greasy board which he had been gnawing.

Things began to look more promising and Unk-Wunk and his mate were so busy with their foraging, they utterly failed to hear the soft, velvet, padded footsteps of another, who had been following their trail from the first. They failed also to catch the gleam of a pair of blazing, yellow eyes which peered out at them maliciously from behind the blackened background of a stump, watching, watching their every movement. It was a large tawny wildcat. For some time the cat watched the porcupines, lashing its tail softly against the pliant ferns; each instant the tail seemed to switch a trifle more impatiently; the wildcat was making ready for an attack. Finally, unable to endure their grunts of joy an instant longer, for the cat was gaunt with hunger, it crouched low, then shot right into the very centre of the camp. Spitting, snarling, yelling its horrid wails, which echoed through the woods, it charged upon the porcupines. Regardless of Unk-Wunk's raised, quilly armour it flew straight at him, tussling, scuffling, spitting and snarling, eager to take away the bone.

Methuselah, the Tyrant, was very old, so old that none of the inhabitants of the pond could have told you his exact age. Like the knights of old he, too, wore armour, which served very well to protect him and turn aside many a stray bullet or dangerous missile aimed in his direction. In fact, Methuselah, the giant snapping turtle of Black Pond, appeared to have led a sort of charmed life, escaping all kinds of dangers in the most lucky manner, and absolutely ruling over all wild things which came near or made their homes in or about the pond.

If the old Tyrant wore knightly armour, he in no other respect resembled the brave knights of ancient days, for by nature he was malicious, sly and wicked. And, if the truth were only known, a very great glutton. Just as soon as the frost left the strata of mud above him where he had wintered, old Methuselah would rouse himself for action. Quite torpid at first, he would crawl to some spot where the sun might strike his chilled, mud-caked shell, and gradually thaw out. Soon would commence his eager search for food, and in early spring he made regular hourly trips around the pond, gobbling up the very first young things which had come out of winter quarters, usually small tender frogs. He loved to lie motionless near the surface of the water, sending up pearly air bubbles through his horny snout, waving a flipper idly, just to keep his huge shell afloat, looking precisely like a round-topped rock, for the old fellow's back was rough and so moss-grown that he resembled a stone more than anything living. But all the while his cold, wicked-looking eyes, when not shaded by their filmy lids, were quite watchful and always on the alert, and his wrinkled neck was ever in readiness to dart out like a flash to snap up anything which came his way.

Snap, snap, would crash his horny, toothless jaws, closing over one after another of the unsuspecting minnow shoals as they slid by him. As for the catfish, with their terrible lance-like spines, rising just behind their gills, and which every boy who goes fishing dreads more than anything—they never bothered the old Tyrant; his armour protected him so well he feared nothing. His hard, warty fore legs were so tough and strong, they could ward off anything troublesome; besides, they were armed with sharp black claws. Usually, Methuselah would come upon the catfish from beneath the shoal; a swift snap of his scaly jaws and he had taken a bite from a pearl-white stomach, thus escaping the horn, and discarding every portion of the fish but the choicest morsels. Sometimes, so silently did the old Tyrant approach the shoal from beneath, that he would succeed in snapping several fish even before the leader of the shoal knew what was going on behind him.

Quite as much at home upon the land as water was old Methuselah. He could remain beneath water a long time, while in between the rank reeds and grasses along-shore ran his wide flattened trails; regular runways they were. You might readily distinguish where the nimble muskrats ran, because their trails were round and hollow, but when the old Tyrant passed, he cut a wide swath. Fully two feet wide was his great shell. It was marked off beautifully in diamonds, each diamond being ringed about with layers or rings in the shell, which, if you were expert enough to read, might have given you a clue to his great age.

His horny legs possessed such wonderful strength that he could readily pin down and hold a large muskrat with one fore leg. Usually, when the muskrat colony came across old Methuselah's fresh trail, they would either leap nimbly over it at a high jump, or back out, making a wide detour to reach their huts, because the water rats always got the worst of it in an encounter with the old Tyrant. Many of them were even forced to swim in lop-sided fashion because of a lost fore paw or hind leg, which had been snapped off by the wicked old turtle.

Nesting time was a pleasant season for Methuselah. Then he would spend more than half his days foraging among the rank, reedy places, and usually he was smart enough to find the old blue heron's nesting place, no matter how skilfully she might conceal it. Once or twice the old birds had come back and actually found the old Tyrant occupying their nest, surrounded by broken egg shells. Of course they fell upon him and thrashed him badly with their great blue wings, but this made no impression upon the diamond armour of the old fellow, although he looked out well to protect his eyes from the heron's lance-like bill—the only thing which he had to fear from them. He just doted upon bird's eggs, but more than eggs did he fancy young, tender fledglings.

Who is it that tells us the tortoise is so slow? Just let one of the larger wild creatures of the forest, something which Methuselah really had cause to fear, get after him, and then you should watch him sprint for the safety of the pond. Putting forth his clumsy, but fearfully strong flippers, with his snaky neck stretching forth to its limit from its wrinkles, his spiky tail held stiff, old Methuselah would start off on a wild, shambling run, hissing back angrily through his black nose-holes as he travelled. His black claws barely touched the earth as he slid over the ground, and it would have taken a very swift runner to keep up with him. Once he reached the water, without pausing to take observations, he would launch himself off into its depths, sinking straight down among the snaky water-weed roots to the bottom of the pond. The pursuer arriving too late at the edge of the water usually went away quite baffled.

Old Ring Neck, the goose, who came each year to Black Pond to rear her wild brood, one season hatched out nine fine goslings, and when the time came she piloted them to the water for their first swimming lesson. All the way the little ones kept up a timorous "peep, peep, peep," which, of course, Methuselah heard plainly enough, for he happened to be right on the edge of the bank sunning himself. Deftly and silently he slid into the water, and from behind a knot of tangled lily roots he watched and laid his plans.

One after another the trusting goslings slipped into the water, their shadows from below looking like floating lily pads, only behind each shadow trailed two pink, webbed feet. Bubbles began to rise from the knot of lily roots below them, but the old goose did not see them; she was too taken up with the young ones. The old Tyrant was making ready to rise.

As soon as the floating shadows of the goslings came just over his hiding place, silently he began to paddle with just one flipper, while his wicked eyes were fixed upon a certain pink foot. Even before the innocent gosling could utter one warning "peep," the old Tyrant had pulled it quickly under water, and borne it off among the matted water-weeds. That day the old goose lost two of her brood in the most mysterious manner. How they had gone, or where, she never found out, and in time Methuselah managed to steal most of her brood, just as he had the young herons. Oh, there was no question about it, the sly old turtle was about the worst Tyrant the pond had ever known.

Now it happened that because the catfish in Black Pond were large and biting unusually well that summer, the two Newton boys, who lived in a lumber camp the other side of the mountain, used often to come there to fish. Frequently they had caught sight of old Methuselah as he lay sunning himself upon the bank, and never in all their lives had they seen such a giant turtle, and they had often spoken about him in the camp.

"You boys better look out for that old turtle," advised one of the lumbermen as the boys were about starting for the pond; "they're ugly customers, them snapping turtles, when you tackle 'em."

"Guess you boys better not go in swimmin'," spoke grandfather from his corner. "I remember a swim I took in Black Pond once when I was a boy, an' say—I left part of one of my toes behind there somewhere; always thought some old snapper got it. We caught a buster there once; managed to hold him, three of us, long enough to cut a date on his shell, but he was so 'tarnal sassy and strong he got away from us. This might be one of his relatives," chuckled the old man.

The boys were allowed to drive the colt and make a day of it. They fished until afternoon, but at last the fish failed to bite and the gnats bothered them so, they left the fishing and tramped alongshore to look at some snares they had set.

"Say, Dick; hi, come here and look at the track I've struck," called Joe; "believe it's our old friend, the snapping turtle. Yes, here he is, fast asleep. Ain't he just a corker?" The two boys had come upon the old fellow as he lay sunning himself.

"Let's wake him up and have some fun with him," suggested Joe. "I'll get a stout stick; you watch him and see that he don't get away."

Methuselah had not been asleep, however, so he just raised one cold eye and stared after the boys insolently, as much as to say, "Who's afraid?"

Soon the boys began to prod the old fellow rather too much for his comfort, for there are certain vulnerable places upon a turtle, and one of these is his wrinkled neck. The stick bothered him so he began twisting his snaky head about angrily and snapping at the boys, hissing savagely, finally clinging obstinately to the stick, so that the boys managed to raise him and turn him upon his back where he waved his flippers helplessly, trying in vain to right himself and crawl away.

"Oh, oh, Joe, look! see! why, here's a date. It says—why, it says '1825'; it surely does, see!"

"Great Scott, Dick, it surely does," cried Joe excitedly, as he read the worn date cut in the shell. "Why, it's grandfather's old snapper, the one he thinks bit off his toe when he was a boy. This old fellow must be terribly old; he was big when grandfather first saw him and grandfather's awful old. Oh, if we could only get him back to camp. Tell you what, before anything happens, let us carve a date right under this one. Give me your knife, Dick." So, together, the boys carved 1913 right under the old date. By prodding the old turtle they made him seize the stick again firmly and together they managed to lift him into their wagon, leaving him helplessly waving his flippers, flat upon his back.

Soon they started for home, but not a minute too soon, for a thunderstorm was beginning to travel over the mountain. Before they were half-way home it began, and the colt, frightened by the rattle of the thunder in the mountain passes, broke and ran. The old wagon swayed and bounced from side to side and the boys had all they could do to manage the colt. They were glad enough to reach camp, finally, and not until they drove to the shed did they remember the snapping turtle, but, to their dismay when they looked for him, he was gone.

"It's a shame!" exclaimed Dick. "I wanted grandfather to see him. Hold the lantern, Joe; perhaps he's slid away under the seat." But they searched in vain, for during their wild ride the old Tyrant had righted himself and slid off the tail end of their wagon.

Away back on the mountain road lay Methuselah, somewhat stunned by his fall. All night he lay there with a piece nicked from his shell. At sunrise he was off over the rough road heading for the pond. He crawled along aimlessly at first. Finally reaching a rise in the ground, all at once he lifted his snaky neck, scenting moisture—the pond. Raising himself high upon his great flippers, his horny head stretched out like a racer, he ran scrambling over stones and through matted jungles of weeds. At last he saw the gleam of the pond lying steel-like and sullen ahead. The hot sun heated his thick shell to furnace heat, scorching his flesh beneath; he longed to plunge into the cooling water. Finally, in desperate haste having reached a high place in the bank, he rolled the remainder of the distance and fell with a loud splash into the pond, straight down into the oozing mud to the bottom, scattering catfish and small fry in all directions.

And there he is still, old Methuselah, the Tyrant of Black Pond, and no one actually knows his age, for 'tis said some turtles have lived a thousand years. But if you ever run across the old Tyrant you may recognise him readily if you have courage and strength enough to turn him over upon his back, for there you will find upon his shell the two dates—1825 and 1913.

A strange, uncanny scream rang out over the sullen waters of Black Lake one night in June, and, although there was no human being near the desolate spot to hear the awful cry, it was quite scary enough to startle certain of the wild inhabitants all alongshore. There were others among them, however, who were unafraid; they had heard the same cry before and recognised it. They knew that Mahug, the Great King Loon, and his wild mate had arrived at the lake, where each year they came from warmer climes, to build their hidden nest in some secluded spot among the rushes.

This lonely spot had always suited the King Loon so well that, no matter how far off he had wintered, he invariably made for Black Lake during nesting time. Mahug, like all his tribe, was a mighty diver and, for water-fowl, he had very fashionable habits, spending a portion of each year near the salt sea, usually camping upon some desolate island, fishing, swimming, and diving with thousands of other water-fowl, yet never mingling at all familiarly with them, or encouraging acquaintances in a sociable way, because the loon is a very solitary bird. So, when nesting time came, Mahug always went off as far away from the crowd as he possibly could go. Quite frequently he and his mate would fly thousands of miles in order to be exclusive and alone. The old loon was a large, imposing bird, his wing and back feathers of a glossy, metallic black, while his beautiful breast was dazzling, pearly white, the feathers very soft and thick. When Mahug stood erect, at first sight, he appeared to be wearing a dark coat thrown back from a pearl-white waistcoat. His head was beautifully marked, the top of fine, iridescent feathers, the neck ringed about with green and bronze. On the wing, you never would have suspected how very awkward Mahug could be upon his feet. On land he just waddled about in the most ungainly fashion, choosing to fly, usually, rather than walk, because his clumsy webbed feet were not intended for tramping. They were set so far back upon his body that they were of small use to him excepting when he used them for paddles in the water.

Mahug was in his element in water or upon the wing. And my, how the old King could dive! In fact, the loon family are all noted divers, for they not only dive deeper than other birds, but they can also stay under water a long time. So quickly could old Mahug dive, that several times in his life when a hunter had fired at him, even before the bullet touched water, the old King Loon was already deep down in the depths of the lake among the snake-like lily roots, safe.

This June when Mahug and his mate reached the shores of Black Lake, he sent his great cry of triumph abroad, for he was glad to be there. Then he and his mate nested low among the sedges and rested for the night, but the very next morning, even before the fog lifted from the lake, both set about their nest building. Right upon the ground they built it, and not very carefully, I am afraid, their main idea being to conceal it cleverly behind a thick curtain of reeds and matted water-weeds, but not so very far from the water. In due time three baby loons pipped their dark green shells, and queer looking little specimens of birds they were—bare, homely and always hungry.

Although it appeared desolate and lonely enough, still, if one but knew, back in the thick undergrowth about the lake, hidden by thick jungles of blackberry vines and dark spruces, there were many secret coverts and dens where the wild of the forest made their homes. The lake itself was almost completely surrounded by treacherous, oozy bogs and morasses, so that it was seldom visited by man. For this very reason the wild things felt safe, and the old King Loon had especially selected the spot, for the loon is the wildest of all wild water-fowl.

Few of the other birds cared to meet the loon in battle, because of the mighty strength of his great wings, which could soon beat out the life of anything upon which they descended, while his heavy coat of feathers protected their wearer well. So when the loon sent its uncanny scream across the lake, more than one timid, wild thing cowered close to the ground and shook with sudden fear.

Star Nose, the mole, loved best of all very dark places. In fact he spent most of his life underground, so that whenever he did venture abroad into strong sunlight, the glare would nearly blind his tiny, almost concealed eyes. It was on this very account, more than any other, that he preferred to come forth from his underground home about twilight. Now if you chanced to come across Star Nose above ground, at first sight you might judge him to be a very slow-moving, dull-witted creature. In reality he was just about the most fierce, blood-thirsty little fellow on earth or under it. For, if Star Nose had actually been about the size of a lion, instead of a tiny mole, he might readily, with one grasp of teeth or claws, so it is said, tear a great ox asunder. So it was just as well for everybody that he was a mere mole.

Wonderfully fine and soft, beyond words, was his smoke-grey, plush-like coat, and by special providence the fur of this coat did not grow in just one direction like that of most furred animals. Instead, you might stroke it either way, up or down. For this reason Star Nose was able to travel backward or forward with equal speed. So strong was Star Nose that he could upheave a long section of the hardest earth, no matter if a steam roller had gone over it. Sometimes, when travelling swiftly through one of his subway passages, his velvety coat would become caked with soil; then he would give himself a quick shake which sent it flying from his back, thus cleaning his fur.

It is never well to judge anything by mere appearances, so, although Star Nose had tiny bits of eyes and no visible ears, he was by no means a dullard. Nature, ever helpful, had shown him exactly the way to take care of himself, and, unlike his cousins, the plain little shrews, Star Nose wore upon the tip end of his small pointed snout a pink star. This star was not given him for just an ornament; it helped him wonderfully in finding his way about underground and, besides, he used it in rooting out deep holes, precisely as a pig uses its flattened snout. Star Nose spent most of his life digging, and for this very reason his claws, instead of curving inward when shut, as do those of most other animals, were arranged in quite a queer fashion—they curved back. This was a great help to him, for he could use them precisely as though they were little spades to toss aside the dirt out of his road. So quickly did he work that, if you but turned your head away for a minute, by the time you looked again Star Nose had dug a hole and was out of sight.

Of all the burrowing tribes which live below ground Star Nose was perhaps the prize digger. He was not content to dig out a burrow for himself a little distance below ground and then sit still in its doorway as did his neighbours, the gopher family. No, nothing would suit Star Nose but a regular city subway, with such straight streets that you wondered how, with his half blindness, he could ever manage to dig them. In addition to this, there were spacious chambers, passages, and regular galleries—long roads which led to his feeding places. You would soon have lost your way in such a maze, but Star Nose never did. He lived in a great bank, and the entrance to his home he had concealed beneath a bush where you would never have seen it, so deftly was it hidden. There was just a little spot raised in the earth which led straight into a large chamber. Five passageways descended from this, connected by galleries lower down, and from this ran many subways and long roads which were worn quite hard and smooth by the passage of old Star Nose, the hermit mole. It was very well for him that these walls were solid, otherwise his whole home might have come tumbling in upon him during a storm.

Now the real reason why Star Nose happened to be occupying such a grand apartment alone was this. Last June he had chanced to meet and select for his mate a little silver-coated mole. But one of his plain, shrew mole cousins had upset all his well laid plans. Happening to meet Star Nose and his companion just outside their burrow, he actually tried to persuade her to go off with him. This was entirely too much for Star Nose to stand; it made him so furiously angry and jealous that he fell upon the impudent shrew, and right there under the home bush they had a dreadful battle. Long and hard they fought there; they scratched and tore and bit each other's beautiful fur coats until they were in tatters, uttering fierce squeaks of rage, rolling over and over in a deadly grip, each mole quite determined to win little Silver Coat, while she, poor thing, sat stupidly by, wondering what it all meant. As she sat there shaking gently, old Golden Eyes, the hawk, went sailing overhead, and making one swift lunge downward bore her away. Neither Star Nose nor his antagonist noticed that she was missing; they kept on with their awful fight, biting each other savagely, as they had in the beginning, until finally the shrew had to give up; he was getting the worst of it, and crawled miserably away. Then Star Nose, for the first time remembering what the fight had been about, searched vainly for his little companion. He peered anxiously everywhere, nosing the earth on all sides and searching; then, thinking perhaps she had gone down into the burrow, down he scurried, peering up and down the long roads and galleries, calling softly to her with little muffled squeaks; this because of the earth which sometimes filled his nostrils. In vain he searched. He did not find Silver Coat. Discouraged and worn out on account of his terrific struggles, he gave up, huddled himself in a soft little ball, covered his head with his flat claws, and took a long sleep in the main chamber of his home, hoping to forget his troubles.

All that summer Star Nose lived alone, and so he became a kind of hermit mole. Of course he was not so very happy; in fact his disposition had become sadly changed. So upset was he by the loss of his little mate that he felt disagreeable with everything which happened to cross his path. Sometimes, so fiercely jealous and full of hate was he that he would enter the subways of the shrew family when they were away, and when he came across a nest full of baby shrews would bite and kill them viciously, in the meanest way. Finally all the shrews for miles about dreaded the approach of old Star Nose and avoided his trails. Even the sight of his star-tipped snout seen breaking through the earth, on a moonlight night, would put them in a panic and they would scurry away.

Star Nose cared nothing for them. He now laid all his troubles to the shrew tribe and so planned in this unjust way to get even with them.

At last the warm, autumnal sunshine no longer shone down and warmed the bank with its rays. As it grew colder, many of those who lived in underground homes, the fur-coated burrowing tribes, began to make ready their winter quarters. The chipmunks had laid in their stores, the woodchucks, now sleek and very fat, had gone into their inner chambers and closed up their front and back doors snugly that they might sleep warm all winter. So there were really very few among the wild ones stirring abroad. Colder and bleaker grew the hillside, but thicker, softer and more elegant became the velvety coat of old Star Nose. He didn't care how cold it grew; in fact he worked all the harder, even beginning new subways deeper down in the ground, which ran far beneath, so the frost could not enter. Star Nose did not close up his doors as had the woodchuck family, for he loved to creep outside and gnaw among the roots and grasses. When the sun came out it warmed his thick fur coat very pleasantly. He took even longer journeys underground, digging frantically in new directions, and he never forgot the fright he had once when in digging he actually broke right through into the hut of Musquash, the muskrat, where it faced the water. It chanced to be vacant, and while he was busy exploring the hut, wondering what kind of cement Musquash used to harden its walls, he heard the slap of a muskrat's tail upon the water. Peering out he saw bubbles rising, then a brown pointed snout, and two indignant eyes looking right at him. Star Nose tried to back out down a passageway, but he was not quick enough, and even before he could turn about Musquash, with a squeak of rage, had him right beneath his claws. Sly old Star Nose thought his time had come then, but, strangely enough, he managed to wriggle his soft body free and had slipped quickly off down a long, narrow passage, too small for the muskrat to follow him. Star Nose realised he had had a narrow escape that time. But, I suspect, if the truth were known, Musquash did not happen to be very hungry, for he had just had a fine meal of lily roots; then, too, Star Nose is not reckoned so great a dainty, for he carries such a disagreeable scent of musk about him, even stronger than that of Musquash himself; 'tis said no wild thing will devour him unless very, very hungry.

After this escape, you may be quite certain Star Nose did not visit the huts of Musquash again. One day Star Nose poked his snout out of a runway of earth which he was raising, and soft white snow feathers came whirling down. He crept forth, and finally the little flakes were sprinkled thickly over his heavy fur coat. He enjoyed the snow although it cut off his food supply above ground. This fact did not worry him, for deep down below the frost line in the earth, grew a matted network of all kinds of succulent roots, some of them terminating in bunches of little, juicy ground nuts. The teeth of the mole were sharp and fine as needles, so all he had to do was to dig and then feast as he worked, which was pleasant, for he was always coming upon some unexpected dainty ahead of him.

At last the snow fell; deep and soft it covered over the hill with a white, thick blanket. Yet beneath the blanket worked and travelled Star Nose. All winter long his trails ran just beneath the deep snow and in the spring, when the ground became bare once more, one is able to see all these blind trails for oneself. The first warm sun shone out at last. It was the beginning of the spring thaws; then the snow blanket upon the hill began to grow thinner each day. Already the great snowy owl had begun to think about a nest, and certain of the fur tribes had ventured to come out, at least upon sunny days, for they were terribly hungry after their long winter sleep.

Right out upon the white snow crust finally crept Star Nose, the mole. At first the glare almost blinded him, he had stayed so long under ground; besides, he loved night best of all. However, he liked to feel the grateful sun warming his back, so there he lay, a soft, blind, stupid bunch of fur, out in plain sight upon the white snow. A long, slim figure, fur-clad, all in white, excepting the tip of its tail, which was brown, came mincing along, picking its way warily over the snow, craning its long neck and peering, first to this side then the other. Over the little snow hummocks it crept, its crafty yellow eyes searching everywhere for food. This was just Kagax, the weasel, wearing his winter coat of white fur, which did not show against the snow, and Kagax was glad, for he was very, very hungry. He spied the little grey heap of fur upon the snow, saw Star Nose huddled there, covering his blinded eyes from the glare, and instantly he pounced upon him, and carried him off.

So this was the end, finally, of Star Nose, the cruel, crafty old hermit mole; such a fierce creature that even his own relatives feared him. And now his fine, secret chambers which he worked so long building, and all his subway passages are vacant, temporarily. But I dare say by spring some of the shrew family will move into his old home.

Far out on the bosom of the wide ocean lay Lonely Island, a small, rock-bound hummock of sand against which the breakers roared and dashed furiously. So wild and barren was the spot that no one visited it, for no human being could live there; nothing throve but rank grasses and stunted beech plum shrubs. Over upon the south side of the island were steep ledges, shelving down into deep water, and this spot alone was never lonely or still, because it was inhabited by thousands of screaming water-fowl.

Down between the cliffs in the lowliest tenements dwelt the snipe and petrel families, the latter seldom at home except during their nesting season. Along the shelf-like places of the rocks above dwelt the gannets, the terns and all other tribes belonging to the gull family. High up in their home crannies the sea birds could always catch the pearly shimmer of the breaking of an approaching school of herrings, even before they reached the line of tossing foam below. Then, swift and sure, they would dart out to meet them. It was wonderful to watch the herring gulls at their fishing, now skimming low over giant, green waves, now sinking into the trough of the sea. Then, with a sudden swift splash of feathery spray, behold the sharp-eyed gull secures the fish and is back again in his own nest upon the cliff. Strangely enough, although the cliff was swarmed with other gull families, each cranny bearing its nest looking precisely like another, never did a returning gull make a mistake or intrude upon another family.

For many seasons the gulls and their kindred had nested upon Lonely Island, but one year hunters discovered their retreat, and set up a temporary camp upon the barren sands. They had come to hunt for terns, killing and slaughtering them by hundreds, just for the sake of their beautiful, delicate feathers for which they were to be paid much money. Finally the hunters abandoned the island, leaving behind them many wounded, besides scores of deserted young birds, not out of the pin-feather age, who would finally pine and die alone upon the lonely ledges, when the parent birds failed to come back to feed them.

For a season, fear and chaos reigned among the gull settlements. Day after day the frightened sea fowl circled wildly about their cliffs, their weird, lonely calls alone breaking the silence, ringing even above the noise of the breakers below them. So many of the colonies were broken up and disturbed that they flew off in detached numbers, perhaps seeking some safer retreat inland.

High up, perched upon one of the topmost crags of Lonely Island, sat all alone a solitary gull. Below, within sight, upon a shelf-like rock, a smaller bird, his mate, sat disconsolately upon the very edge of her dismantled nest, unwilling to tear herself away from two featherless young gulls, her babies, who would never stretch out their long necks to her for food again. They were limp and dead—the hunters had wantonly thrown down loose rocks and broken up the nest.

Although Silver Wing, the old leader of the gull tribe, felt badly enough over the loss of the little gulls, he was much older and wiser than his mourning mate; he had lived through many seasons and similar tragic events in his life. So even while his mate sat mourning, his sharp eyes had been fixed upon a certain wave crest out beyond the breaker line.

With a sudden swift rush of his wide wings he launched himself from the cliff; a wild plunge and he rose from the great wave bearing aloft a glistening herring. With a graceful sweeping detour, he swerved in toward the cliff, and finally landed close beside his mate, where he dropped the fish beside her with a little crooning, plaintive cry, which meant, of course, "Take this nice herring which I have brought you, and be comforted, little mate." With another swirl of his wings he flew to fish for another herring before the school could get away.

Heaps of strange events in Nature go unexplained. Some say 'tis because the wonderful old Indian story tellers who knew many wood secrets are gone. Long ago the little Indian children loved to squat beside some smouldering lodge fire and listen to these tales—these hidden secrets told of their little brothers of the wood. They were told how Moo-wee-suk, the racoon, always wore five rings about his plumy tail, why the red-winged blackbird is branded with two spots of living fire on its jetty wings, why the woodpecker carries a bright splash of fresh blood upon his crest, and also why the badger is always a kind of joke, just because of his war-paint markings. Some tales remain untold and one of them is how Kos-ko-menos, the great kingfisher, won his beautiful blue belt.

Dee-dee-askh, the blue jay, had wintered in the deep pine forests instead of flying south one autumn. Wild berries had been plentiful that year and the greedy jay hated to leave behind such good feasting, so he remained behind the migrating birds. He was glad though when the long, cold months of "The Snow Shoes" passed, for he was tired of feeding upon pine-cone seeds, or anything which he could pick up in the forest. The snow had begun to melt away from the south sides of the hills and the mountain brooks roared tremendously, breaking free from their strong ice prisons, making pleasant music through the valleys and in the rocky passes of the mountains.

The crows were colonising, coming out from their retreats in the thick pine coverts, where they had huddled all winter to keep from freezing. They cawed hoarsely to each other. The jay screamed loudly, trying to drown their cries and break up their council. Dee-dee-askh is not popular with the wood people, for he has always had the bad reputation of being a thief. He loves to watch smaller birds at their nest building and rob them of their eggs or the very young birds; no wonder he is unpopular.

Dee-dee-askh filled the woods with his harsh, strident screams and swooped down the valley, following Otter Creek until he reached a spot where it broadens. One side is a steep bank, and across towers the mountain, green with thick spruces to its summit. This forest was where the jay and his mate decided to build their nest. Year after year they had built there and Dee-dee-askh had managed to rid himself of very near neighbours, fighting them savagely if they intruded upon his privacy, so remained a sort of monarch. He loved to conceal himself in some thick bush and frighten more timid birds, or little furry things.

"Kee-oo, Kee-oo," would scream the jay, imitating to perfection the harsh scream of a hawk; then how he would chuckle to himself to see the frightened things scurry, or fly off to hide themselves in the thick woods.

One day Kos-ko-menos himself, King of all the kingfisher tribes, came journeying down the creek; he was looking for a new building site, for, as it happened, the old fishing pool where he had lived the season before was too shallow, owing to the drought. So the fish had all gone up-stream seeking deeper pools. It was important that the kingfisher should build near good fishing, because soon there would be young birds to feed.

Taking six little flapping short flights, then a glide, on came Kos-ko-menos, followed closely by his smaller mate. His beautiful crimson eyes searched up and down the creek as he flew, trying to decide upon the best building site. But when he came to the clay bank, he knew he need search no further; nothing could be better. Without even waiting to rest themselves, Kos-ko-menos and his mate soon began to make the dirt fly in all directions as they excavated deeply for their new home. Round and smooth was their doorway, just large enough to admit one kingfisher at a time. About half-way up the side of the bank it was placed, and ran fully six feet, straight into the clay. Into a little hollow at the very end they threw a few fish bones and loose leaves, then the beautiful eggs were laid, which in time would become three goggle-eyed, frowsy-headed little kingfishers, very ugly, but handsome to their parents, of course.

Kos-ko-menos darted back and forth, flashing like a great blue jewel, as he took up his sentinel-like position upon a stake in the water, where he could peer straight down into the deep water for fish. He preened his feathers, shaking out the clinging clay, and gave loud screams, he felt so happy about the nest.

"Kerrr-ik-r-r-r," he screamed triumphantly, making a terrific sound, just exactly like that of a harsh, wooden toy rattle, only louder, if possible. The very mountains rang with his cry. Then all the furry tribes knew for certain that Kos-ko-menos had come to live in that spot. Many of them disliked the idea very much; they dreaded his harsh scream which made the more timid jump and disturbed their babies, it was such a horrid cry. The kingfisher has always been considered a kind of outcast among other birds. They imagine that he is uncanny; that is, because of his wonderful skill at fishing, and because he can dart into the water quickly and stay under a long time, so they think perhaps he is himself more of a fish than a bird. They cannot understand why he does not walk properly, but has a way of waddling which is very funny because his legs are very short and placed far back upon his body. His great bushy crest makes him appear almost top-heavy and his appearance is ungainly. I think, however, that the real reason why he is shunned by some birds and shabbily treated, is because they are, secretly in their hearts, jealous of the beautiful feathers which Kos-ko-menos wears, because, no matter how homely his body may be, it is beautifully clothed. Upon the top of his head he wears a long, high crest of rich, dark green, which colour extends down his neck, and each little feather is flecked with spots of blue of a wonderful hue. Violet and blue is his coat, his tail a deep indigo blue. Over each crimson eye and just beneath it, is a cunning dot of black. He wears a thick, feathered waistcoat of yellowish-white, and his beak is jet black.

Once more Kos-ko-menos screamed his wooden-rattle cry. Then like a flash he darted straight into the deepest part of the pool, and before the spray had fallen he was out again with a fine, wriggling fish. As he was about to kill the fish upon a near-by stone, a blue, flashing fury came dashing out of the woods with a harsh, angry scream, and Dee-dee-askh landed upon the crest of the kingfisher. They had a terrific battle; back and forth, back and forth over the creek they flew, showers of light blue feathers barred with black and white fell, and a few speckled green ones. Mrs. Kingfisher poked her head curiously forth from the bank to see what all the screaming meant. At last the jay flew back to the woods with a portion of his proud crest gone, and the kingfisher, smoothing down his ruffled feathers, gave another scream and went back to his fishing. 'Tis said that certain of the wood creatures who witnessed the conquering of the jay chuckled and grunted with joy, remembering sundry robberies of nests and burrows by Dee-dee-askh, the cruel one. After this they began to have a little more regard for Kos-ko-menos, the kingfisher; but this was just the beginning of things.

Musquash, the muskrat, lived under the bank of the creek. Many of the little muskrats used to stray out upon the bank right in plain sight of an old pirate eagle which lived on the mountain, and which used to come sailing down the creek, watching to swoop down upon anything alive which he saw below.

Musquash himself was old and almost blind; he could not detect the eagle when he soared high above. One after another the young ones were stolen by the old pirate, old Bald Head. This had happened before the kingfisher came to live in the bank. One day Musquash himself ventured up the bank after roots; he did not see old Bald Head high above, watching him.

But Kos-ko-menos sat upon his sentinel post watching. He thought he saw a faint white dot in the sky—the flashing of the sun upon the bald head of the old pirate.

"Khr-r-r-r-rrr," screamed the kingfisher defiantly, as the old pirate was hovering his wings, making ready to drop down upon poor, old blind Musquash. Before he reached earth, Musquash, heeding the warning scream of Kos-ko-menos, was paddling straight for his hut under water.

The kingfisher was glad to see the old sky pirate outwitted, and so glad to save Musquash, that he dived down after the fish he had been watching, caught it, and all the time he was eating the fish he kept up a little glad, chattering chuckle, deep down inside. Many had seen how the kingfisher had saved old Musquash, and finally they all came to depend upon him to warn them when danger came that way. Kos-ko-menos never failed them.

The jay family raised three young, impudent jays. Already the young ones in the kingfishers' nest had stuck their fuzzy heads out of the hole in the bank, and both Dee-dee-askh and Kos-ko-menos had all they could do to get food enough for their families. One day the jay caught a fine catfish, and he thought to himself that he might as well gobble it all up instead of taking it home. He flew quickly to a near-by stone to beat the catfish, lest it sting him with its sharp horn. As he was about to swallow the fish whole, he heard an angry scream from his home. His mate had been watching him all the time. Again came the cry, which sounded not unlike the sharp striking of metal, then a loud, shrill scream, "Cray-cray, cray!" Dee-dee-askh saw a whirl of light blue feathers approaching. In his haste to bolt the fish whole, lest his mate take it from him, he choked and choked and swallowed. But alas, greedy fellow! The fish was too large for just one mouthful, and he began to flutter helplessly upon the rock, while the tail of the catfish protruded from his mouth.

Kos-ko-menos saw it all and chuckled to himself, but he had a kind heart. Flying straight to the jay, he gave one sharp, strong tug at the tail of the catfish, and the greedy jay was saved. Some say the real reason the kingfisher seized the catfish was because he wished to gobble it down himself—but that point is not certain. Kos-ko-menos had certainly saved his neighbour from choking to death, which showed he bore no grudge against the jay. Of course all the wood people saw the kind act of Kos-ko-menos, and it made a deep impression upon them; they marvelled, because the jay had been so rude to the kingfisher. It was nice of him to forget his mean treatment, they thought.

Down deep in a certain pool of the creek lived old Kenozha, the pickerel, dreaded and feared for years by all the inhabitants of the banks who swam in the water, or fished for a living. The sly old fellow had a cruel way of coming up just beneath them when they were in the water, and before they knew it he had nipped off a toe, a tail, or even a head. The turtles had lost claws, the giant bullfrog, leader of the spring choruses, was minus a foot, and even the wary old loon had lost a toe. Kos-ko-menos, who knew all about the old pickerel and his crafty ways, determined to rid the pool of him, and took to watching for him, as many another had before him; the jay, the loon, and the hawks had all fished for Kenozha, but this is why they had failed: the old fellow had seen their shadows upon the water. So wise Kos-ko-menos, the kingfisher, knew better than to let his shadow fall upon the water, but took good care to perch upon his watch tower at just the right angle so that he should throw no reflection, and the green, goggle eyes of the pickerel could not spy him. There was great excitement along the banks of the creek one day, when Kos-ko-menos arose from the creek bearing the struggling old pickerel in his strong beak, and much interest as they watched him subdue and beat Kenozha until he could struggle no longer. All were glad; even Dee-dee-askh came screaming out of the forest, while grunts and chuckles of approval might be heard from many a retreat where hid the wood brothers. And 'tis said that even a soft, murmuring song of praise stirred among the whispering pines up aloft.

Soon after that time, the watchful ones noticed the beginning of a faint blue band across the breast feathers of the kingfisher. Gradually it deepened and widened, finally becoming a well-defined belt right across the pale yellow waistcoat of the kingfisher.

And ever since that time Kos-ko-menos and all his tribe after him continue to wear this badge of honour, this belt of azure blue, like belted knights of old. The kingfisher is no longer an outcast among the little brothers of the wood.

It was full of the moon at the seashore, and the young field corn close by was ripe; each pearly kernel almost bursting with its milky-sweet contents. What a time for a corn roast or frolic; so thought all the boys along that particular strip of beach, which shelved its way down from a dense forest of spruce and hemlock to the edge of the water.

There were others, the furry things, the four-footed people of the woods, who knew just as well as the boys what good times were to be had at that particular season, and they made their plans accordingly. The boys had visited the beach that same night, roasted their corn and oysters, and left long before. The shore was apparently quite deserted. The ebbing tide was stealing out softly, scraping and rasping upon the little round pebbles, sending little golden shells tinkling musically against each other, as the water lapped and filtered through them. Overhead shone the great yellow moon, making a wide silvery path straight out across the water. One wondered where the road ended. Back from the beach in the dark woods, plenty of life was now stirring, for the nocturnal prowlers were waking up, though the small windows of the scattered farmhouses were dark and still. Above the noise of the ebb tide the katy-dids were heard contradicting each other tirelessly, hoarsely, "katy-did, katy-didn't." Crickets shrilled in the long, coarse beach grass; a distant screech-owl set up an occasional shivery wail. Then, from amid the thickets of scrub oak and barberry bushes, came another call—an unusual cry, not often heard, which began with a tremulous whimper, ceased, then went on; and was finally taken up and answered by another similar whimpering cry, and still another, from different parts of the woods. The first call had been given forth by an old hermit racoon, or a "little brother of the bear." He was something of a leader, and was sending out a summons for all his relatives to join him in a moonlight frolic.

The old hermit scrambled hastily down from his home tree, which happened to be the deserted nest of a great owl. Plainly the old hermit would soon outgrow this borrowed home, for when sweet corn is in the milk, and the little salt wild oysters are plentiful down on the beach, then the racoon became so very fat that he could barely waddle. Of course he felt obliged to fatten himself in late summer, for already he was making ready for his all-winter's sleep and his long, long season of fasting.

Having reached the ground, the hermit sent out another call—the rallying cry of his tribe; for dearly the racoon loves to feast and frolic in company and was becoming impatient to start off. The only reason, I suspect, why the old hermit lived absolutely alone, at this time, was merely because there was absolutely not an inch of spare room for another racoon in the nest.

To his joy, his kindred had responded, and soon from out of the shadowy places stole one waddling form, then another, until finally five racoons were in the party. Then with the hermit leading them, Indian file, they all made their way leisurely to the distant corn field. In and out among the tall rows of nodding, whispering blades they stole, and standing upon their little black hind feet, they would reach up the corn stalk, and deftly pull down a plump ear with their forepaws, which they used as cleverly as hands. They never made the mistake of selecting blackened, mildewed ears; these and the shrivelled, dwarfed ears they tossed disdainfully aside, and my! what havoc those coons did make in the corn field that night! They would strip off the silky green husks and eat out only the full, milky kernels, smearing their black noses and paws liberally with the juice, which they would hasten to rinse off at the first water they found.

It was nearing March, but deep snow still covered the hills up in the North country, and there were, as yet, scant signs of spring; not even a bird was to be seen, excepting occasionally a solitary crow. When the sun shone out in the middle of the day, the brown fence tops began to show above the white drifts down in the clearings. By night the freezing cold returned; everything froze up solid, and upon the snow crusts which were thick and glossy it was just the best kind of slide.

There were other important things for boys to think about besides fun and tobogganing; it was just the right sort of weather to begin making maple sugar. For when it freezes hard, then thaws, the sap will run; so up near the lumber camps, where Dick and Joe lived, the sugar season was commencing. Several miles beyond the camps upon the side of a wild mountain, rightly called Lone Mountain, grew a great forest of maples. The spot was too far away for most of the campers to bother about sugar making, but Dick and Joe did not mind distances, and as all the spending money which the boys had they were expected to earn for themselves, they were only too glad to have the privilege of tapping the maples on Lone Mountain. Even before the sap began to flow, they had actually counted over the money they would earn with their sugar and had really spent almost every cent.

They whittled out hundreds of fine ash spills to run the sap, then borrowed every crock and pail their mother could spare from the camp to hold it, besides two great black iron kettles, which they would set over an arch built of large flat stones, where they would boil their syrup. After packing provisions and all their outfit upon a sledge, off they started for Lone Mountain, a day's journey from camp.

Wild and lonely enough was Lone Mountain, a kind of scary spot at best for two boys to camp out alone, but they were not at all afraid, for they were used to wild places: having lived so long in the great spruce forests they felt quite at home. Several years before, they had found the remains of an old sugar house standing in the maple grove on the mountain below a great overhanging crag. Here they would live, and boil the sap outside the shack. After tapping their trees, they drove in the spills, hanging the buckets beneath. As fast as the sap collected they had to boil it, or it would soon sour and be wasted. So, as you can well imagine, both boys were kept very busy, collecting sap, keeping up fires under the great iron kettles, watching the boiling sugar, and testing it upon the snow to find out when it was boiled enough. When night came they were very tired, but they kept at their sugar making as long as the sap continued to run from the trees. They had been on Lone Mountain over a week. With the continued thawings and freezing, the sap kept on running, and the boys were glad, for it meant a fine lot of sugar and they were greatly elated over their good luck. They would carry back more sugar to camp than ever before.

"If we can only have two days more like to-day's run of sap, we'd make a pile of money this year," spoke Dick happily; "we could buy two fine overcoats, and have something toward our new sugaring outfit that we talked with father about buying."

"Yes, I know; great!" replied Joe, as he ladled out a great waxy spoonful of amber sugar upon a pan of snow, and after it had cooled a bit divided it with Dick.

"Bully, ain't it?" said Dick, cleaning off the spoon. "Best we ever made—fine and white; it'll fetch top price. But say, we could make it still better if we only had a new up-to-date outfit. We've got to get it somehow, I guess, even if we don't buy new coats this year; guess our old ones will go another year; we ain't dudes."

Sure enough, that day, to the delight of the boys, another thaw came and the sap ran as it never had done before and kept them jumping well to save it all.

"One of us will have to stay awake and tend fires and watch to-night. We can't finish up anyhow, and we can't afford to waste all this sap. I'll boil all night," said Dick, tucking the embers in around the great kettle.

"You won't tend alone. If you stay up all night I shall too," said Joe stoutly. "Guess we're partners on this sugar making, ain't we?"

"Of course. Tell you what we will do: I'll tend till midnight, while you sleep, then you can work the rest of the night while I sleep," suggested Dick. To which his brother agreed willingly.

The boys ate their supper, boiling their eggs in sap, and finishing up with brown bread spread thickly with soft, new maple sugar. And oh, how fine it tasted to the two tired boys. Soon Joe was fast asleep in the shack upon his fragrant bed of balsam boughs, rolled up in an old patchwork quilt his mother had made him take, for it always grows bitterly cold in the mountains before morning. Dick grinned to himself, as he worked alone and heard Joe's tired snores coming from the shack, and he made up his mind to let him sleep after midnight and get well rested. He kept very busy himself tending the bubbling syrup in both kettles and bringing firewood. It was somewhat lonely off up there in the mountain, now there was no one to talk to, thought Joe to himself. The wind sighed and whined in the tops of the spruces. Occasionally he heard a mysterious crack upon the snow crusts, off in the woods, where some hoof or paw broke through. Finally, an old owl began its lonely hoot above the shack somewhere, and once he heard a long, whimpering yell, far across the valley. He knew what that meant; a lynx was abroad, venturing down into the clearings after a sheep perhaps. Joe looked back into the shack rather longingly after the lynx yelled; he was almost tempted to awaken Dick, but decided, unselfishly, not to.

At last, long after midnight, Joe himself began to feel extremely worn out and sleepy. A great stillness had settled over everything; even the wind seemed to soothe him to drowsiness, while the sap bubbled and blubbered softly and monotonously in the iron kettles. In spite of all he could do, Joe's tired eyes closed together, and, untended, the fires under the black kettles burned lower and lower.

Out beyond the camp, breaking through the snow crusts, unheard, stole a huge, black, shambling figure, closely followed by two smaller ones. A great black mother bear and her two very young cubs, and she was heading them straight for the boys' sugar camp. The cubs were so young they had difficulty in keeping up with their mother, for they were tired. It had been a long distance down from the den, but the mother bear did not spare them, and kept nosing them along impatiently when they halted along the trail. Now if there is one thing on earth a bear loves even more than honey it is maple sugar. The scent of the boiling syrup arose even above the woody, odours, and delicious enough it seemed to the old bear; she was eager to reach the camp.

At last the little trio came out into a small clearing surrounding the shack. The old bear halted, warily, but all was now silent. Inside the shack lay one boy fast asleep, rolled in his patchwork quilt, while half leaning against a tree slept another. The sugar had ceased to bubble and heave in the great kettles, for the fires were almost out. Between the kettles shuffled the old bear, followed by the cubs, whimpering wearily and crossly. The old bear arose upon her hind feet snuffing and grunting, but never offering to disturb the sleeping boys; all she cared about now was to find maple sugar. She was of monstrous size, and when she finally entered the shack, she completely filled up the rude doorway with her huge form. She nosed about, but did not find the stored sugar, so out she shambled, and cautiously approaching a great black kettle, she sniffed long and deliriously at its contents, blowing out the whitened ashes in clouds from the blackened embers with her breath. The cubs meantime seated themselves close by and watched her movements curiously.

Then the old bear did a very foolish thing. So eager was she to get a taste of the sugar in the kettle that she reached in with one great furry paw, burning it severely. She immediately lost her head, and in her rage upset the whole kettle full of hot syrup all over herself. Then there was something doing! With a terrific howl of pain and sudden terror, which made such a racket that the mountains fairly echoed back her cries, the old bear tore off into the woods in a perfect frenzy of agony, her heavy coat soaked with hot syrup, which burned its way deeper and deeper at every step. Without heeding the cubs, or what became of them, she ran wildly on, only seeking water where she might cool her burning flesh. As soon as Dick and Joe heard the first yell of the bear, they were wide awake, you may be sure. Joe saw the old bear just as she disappeared in the woods, and scared almost out of his wits he shouted:

"Hi, Dick, bears! Look! There goes one big as a house, and see, there's another one," pointing out one helpless, whimpering little cub which had been left behind by the old bear in her madness.

"Where?" inquired Dick sceptically, as he appeared from inside the shack, rubbing his eyes sleepily. "What, that thing? It couldn't hurt a fly; it's just a baby. I hope you aren't afraid of a bear cub that size."

"Well, I didn't say I was," replied Joe, rather touchily. "You just ought to have seen the big one I saw, and heard its yells. It was awful. It turned over almost a whole kettle of hot syrup. Look!" and Joe pointed to the overturned kettle.

"No wonder it yelled," grinned Dick; "though come to think, it got pretty well scalded; that's why it yelled so, I guess. And say, it won't come back here right off either, I'll bet. But look, he's wasted almost a whole kettle full of good syrup—meddling old thing. Say, why in creation didn't you wake a fellow up?"

"Oh, well, I guess, come to think of it, I must have been asleep. I seem to remember closing my eyes once or twice," confessed Joe.

"Great Scott! I should think you did. Let a bear come into camp and not wake you up; ha! ha!" jeered Dick. "But look here; we're in something, if we did lose some sugar; we've got a bear cub, and my, ain't he a dandy?"

"Look, look, Dick! He's sitting up and rubbing his eyes with his paw and crying, just like a little kid. My, ain't he the funniest little fellow?" spoke Joe delightedly, watching the cub, and both boys had great fun over their new pet, which they meant to take back with them to the lumber camps.

"Sugaring all finished to-day," commented Dick, as the sun rose over the tops of the tall spruces, and they ate their breakfast, sharing their bacon rinds with the bear cub, which had seemed to take to them at once.

"Won't we surprise the folks when we lug all this sugar home, and a bear cub too?" spoke Joe. "Say, look at his head, Dick; see, he's got a funny mark from his nose to the back of his ears; I'll bet when he sheds his woolly baby fur, it'll be a regular white streak right across his face. I heard Indian Pete tell once about a white-faced bear; they're awful rare."

"Hope the folks will let us keep this fellow in camp," said Joe. "He'll make a fine pet, and Indian Pete 'll help us to teach him tricks perhaps."

"Say, what if the old bear comes back for her cub? She'll be awful mad at us, and I guess we better make tracks and leave here soon as we can," suggested Dick, peering back into the thick woods, almost expecting to see the old bear making for them.

"Huh, I ain't afraid; she's probably so badly burned, she won't think of anything else for a while. Just the same, we'll break camp," replied Joe.

So back to camp they went in triumph, their sugar packed on the sledge, and on top of the load sat the little, furry bear cub, which they had already named Whitey. Because Whitey was such a cunning little fellow he was accepted in camp, and soon became a perfect pet. He was full of mischief, however, and could never be left within reach of the sugar crocks. He broke and filched eggs, and even gnawed whole sides of bacon. To make up for his mischief he acquired many taking tricks. He soon learned to stand on his head, and beg for lumps of maple sugar, and was beginning to take a few clumsy, capering steps, which Indian Pete called dancing.

Evil days came, and as Whitey grew older he became cross, and would often bite and scratch roughly. So finally, the boys were told they would have to part with their pet. Now, as good luck would have it, an opportunity came to sell the bear to a man who dealt in trained animals. Dick and Joe went sadly to work, and built for him a rough coop with slats in front. In this coop Whitey was placed, and the following day he would be taken away. For the last time the boys visited him in his crate, which had been set behind the camp, in the edge of the woods, so that his whines might not disturb the camp through the night. Early the next morning before sunrise the team would take him away. The boys threw in lumps of sugar and things which their pet fancied most, and after shaking his rough paw, sadly they said good-bye to him, for Whitey would be gone before they were astir in the morning.

That very night, when everybody was asleep, from far across the valley travelled a great, shambling black bear. She had come from far over the other side of Lone Mountain. She shuffled her way to the boys' sugar camp first. In and out of the desolate shack she stole, stopped to sniff at the blackened firebrands, nosed anxiously about the spot where her cub had rested so long ago, when one cub had followed her back to the den and the other had been lost. Then, wheeling suddenly about, she took an almost worn-out, indistinct trail which led into the forest; and starting into a broken canter she headed toward the lumber camps.

Thus it happened when the team halted to pick up the wooden crate and carry the bear cub to town, there was no cub to be found. All that remained was a heap of broken, splintered boards. The boys soon spied out the small tracks of Whitey, and then Indian Pete pointed out two other great broad marks—the tracks of a full-grown bear. The mother bear had never forgotten her cub; she had come back for it at last, and just in the nick of time. The boys were secretly glad that their pet had regained his freedom. Surely, in the great, green spruce forests, where the red raspberries grew thick and sweet on the mountain sides, and the wild honey may be taken any day, Whitey would be far, far happier than capering and doing tricks to amuse a curious crowd.

Years after, a white-faced bear boldly approached the boys' sugar camp, and was seen by them, but they did not fear him, for they were almost certain it must be their old pet Whitey, who gained his freedom long before.

In the heart of a certain dense cypress swamp, in the middle South, lies a pond of water, which is fed by many streams winding and percolating their sluggish courses through the vast swamp lands. It is lonely and wild there. This is what makes the place such a safe retreat for the birds. Each spring they come back to this spot, the wood ducks, the bitterns, the teal, and the little blue heron family. Their flashing, brilliant plumage lights up the sombre darkness of the jungles, while their strident cries make the spot less lonely. Perhaps the little blue herons are the very noisiest of all. Wading in the water on their stilt-like legs, searching for minnows or crayfish, they are almost sure to have a quarrel if one of them gets a prize fish, and then what a clamour they can make. Away off in the swamp it sounds almost as if they were screaming back and forth, "Tell you what, tell you what," over and over again.

One spring day after most of the birds had arrived at the pond, peering skyward from their fishing, they saw two specks approaching. Gradually the specks drew nearer and nearer, and finally, when they reached the precise spot where they meant to settle, straight down, like plummets, they fell, right into the swamp. Then all the other birds set up a noisy, clamorous welcome, for the great Snowy Egrets, the most important newcomers of the season, had arrived. Beautiful beyond description is the great Snowy Egret. Snow white is its exquisite plumage, that wherever it appears it lights up the dark, gloomy swamps and jungles with its purity. The beak and legs of the egret are black, its eyes a golden yellow, while from its back trails a wonderful long spray of soft, snowy plumes, which float behind like a white robe as it flies. These beautiful plumes are longer on the mother bird, and at nesting time she uses them to cover the baby egrets.

Having found a choice place in a stunted cypress, the egrets soon set about their nest building, choosing a site about forty feet above the swamp. Very affectionate and loving with each other are the egrets; whenever the male bird leaves the cypress, on his return he makes such a fuss over his mate, greeting her as joyfully and tenderly as though he had been gone a week. In fact, the egrets are gentle, trusting birds, and have few enemies among the wild. The father egret does most of the hard work too, for he gathers all the twigs for the nest, which the mother egret carefully builds. Taking turns, the egrets sit upon the four eggs, and in eighteen days the little, homely, featherless egrets appear, naked except for a few tufts of down. This makes them very tender, and the mother egret covers them over during the intense heat of the day with her soft trailing plumes.

At daybreak the father egret would fly off, returning with a crop or pouch full of tiny fish, and while the mother was away getting her own breakfast the young egrets were fed. Clinging to the edge of the nest, father egret would stretch forth his long, snowy neck over the little ones. And one by one he would produce the fish which he had brought home, only partially swallowed, and which the little egrets would gobble up quickly. It took such a quantity of food to satisfy the baby egrets that the old birds made many, many, trips across the swamp to the water during the day.

Now, although the desolate swamp country appeared deserted enough, excepting for its bird and wild life, back on the edges of the vast wilderness Italian families had located, to begin clearing up the jungles of wild timber, and drain the swamp lands. So this is how it happened that Tony and Papita, his small sister, came to live in the swamps. Not a very pleasant place to live in, but their father and mother were there, so they did not mind; besides, as Tony and his sister were too young to work, they had fine times exploring together. In the swamps they found plenty of wild, new things, wonderful flowers, and long mosses, and queer toadstools. Tony came across an old dugout one day, abandoned by some swamper, and then the children began to go upon voyages of discovery. They paddled up and down the narrow, sluggish streams which wound through the swamp, and each day they would venture a little farther. They were never afraid of the loneliness, or any wild thing they saw. Often a great snake would slide heavily off a log into the water, as they stole by in the old boat. At first Papita would shiver, but Tony always laughed at her fears, and now she had become quite as brave at swamp sights as her brother.

One day Tony almost thought himself lost; they found themselves in such a dense, dark spot. At first there seemed no way of getting through.

"We best turn back now, Tony," suggested Papita; "it's the end, I think."

"No, see, the light comes through, soon—we go on a little further." Tony paddled on manfully, and they leaned low to avoid the long, snake-like vines of bamboo. Sure enough, a few tugs of the paddles brought them right through the dark place, out into such a wonderful new spot, they were glad they had kept on. At first such a noise began around them, as the old boat shot through into the light, that Tony and Papita were almost afraid, until they found out what it all meant. Hawks whistled sharply overhead, and the air was filled with water-fowl, which arose from a little island in the middle of the pond they had entered. Wings flapped, there were harsh croaks on all sides, while the blue herons set up their "Tell you what, tell you what," cry.

The children stared about them in astonishment, and, as they stared, a strange thing happened. Right out of the skies, so it first appeared to Tony, a wonderful, snowy form came flying, trailing behind it, what appeared to the children, a beautiful white robe. Its great snowy wings were wide spread, and it finally settled in a dark cypress, where its wonderful plumes shone out so pure and white that both the children were awed by the strange sight. Now there was one thing only which they knew about, and which they imagined bore a faint resemblance to this white-winged thing: their mother treasured an illuminated card with a pictured angel.

"Say, Tony," almost whispered Papita, "perhaps it is an angel."

"No, no," replied more sensible Tony. "It's a real bird, but a kind of angel bird perhaps."

The great plains lay hot and parched at sunset. Silent and lonely it was, too, for the drought of weeks had been so terrific that even the usually sociable little prairie dogs stayed in their holes to escape the scorching heat. At sunset they were beginning to liven up, and all other wild things which had stayed in the cool places were coming out. Between the dried, stunted clumps of mesquite trees, and the sagebrush patches, certain dark shadows skulked: the coyotes were starting off upon their nightly raids. The little prairie chickens had gone to roost, but the hooting of the small brown-barred owls which lived in the earth burrows, had begun among the sage-brush thickets.

A coyote, stealing in and out along its trail, suddenly squatted upon its lean haunches, resting upon the raised dirt of a dog village. From this site it peered curiously off into the distance, for its bleary, green eyes saw something moving against the sky-line. What the coyote saw was this: a great, black, hulking, moving object was stumbling its way westward, following the last golden glow of the sunset, and, as the creature watched, it made out another, smaller figure, following close beside the large one. Then, after satisfying its curiosity the coyote raised its lean snout, and howled dismally from sheer disappointment, for that which he hoped might be game had turned out to be nothing but just an old, sick or wounded buffalo, followed by her little calf. The sight so disgusted the half-starved coyote, that it started in an opposite direction on a slinking run, for with all its meanness it will not pursue another which is wounded.

The huge mother buffalo stumbled bravely on and on; she was very weak, for she still carried an Indian's arrow in her side. How she had managed to escape at all with her calf was a wonder. The herd had stampeded, and somehow, after they had gone, she found herself wounded, alone with her calf. Lowing to the little fellow, she encouraged it to follow her and all day they had journeyed over the long, hot trail. If she could only manage to find water, then she could wallow, and perhaps her stinging wound would heal. Occasionally she stumbled, almost breaking her leg as she plunged into the hole of some dog village which her glazing old eyes had not seen.

Suddenly she raised her great shaggy head, and roared out a low cry of triumph; she had scented water. She urged on the weary, tottering steps of her calf, pushing him on ahead with her nose, lowing gently and affectionately, encouraging it to hold out a little longer, for soon they would come to the beautiful, longed-for water hole.

They entered a small canyon between two notches, and right down in a hollow, a short distance off, the little new moon flashed a gleam across the water. As soon as they had quenched their dreadful thirst, the mother dropped down heavily among the undergrowth, and the little calf, already refreshed, stepped in and out of the thickets, cropping contentedly among the tender cactus sprouts and arrow weed. Mogul, the calf, perhaps wondered, the next morning as the sun beat its hot way into the canyon, why his mother did not rise as usual from her all-night resting place, and low for him to follow her. After a time he understood, for such is the keen instinct of the wild; she would never rise again. Thus did Mogul, the calf buffalo, begin his lonely life. His brave mother had just managed to lead him into the safe canyon for water, and then had died.

Mogul was an unusually fine, large calf, for his age. He was full of courage and daring, but he stayed safe in the canyon, where the forage was plentiful and water never failed him, for a long while, every day growing bigger and stronger. When spring came and the passes began to grow bright with gay-coloured flowers, the water holes bubbled, and prairie chickens called their "Coos, coos, coos" from the thickets; then Mogul began to look about and long for companionship, for he was lonely. He noticed the happy frolics of the jack-rabbits with approving, gentle eyes. Contentedly chewing the cud, he would watch the prairie dogs romping happily in and out of the doors of their villages. A bark from the watching sentinel would sound an alarm note, and, like a flash, they would vanish into a hundred holes. With the sprouting of his small, sharp black horns came a sudden restlessness to Mogul. He remembered the herd, so he determined to leave the canyon and find them.

He had never encountered any real danger in his life as yet, never heard the swish of an Indian's arrow, or sighted a painted, brown body topped off with painted feathers, astride a loping pony. Once on the open plains he would soon find out about all these things for himself. Through the mouth of the sheltering canyon travelled Mogul, so full of courage and life that he gambolled and leaped playfully by the way; he would shake his huge, top-heavy head, and rip up great tufts of sage-brush with his sharp horns. Occasionally he halted, bellowing fiercely and stamping. A yellow, diamond-back rattlesnake presumed to coil and rattle at him impudently, right in his path. Knowing no fear, Mogul charged at it, sending it spinning high in the air, then stamping it out beneath his shining hoofs.

The sun baked down mercilessly upon his heavy coat out on the open plain, where there was no shelter. Almost he wished himself back in the canyon. Gnats bit right through his tough hide; he swung his great head incessantly and angrily, lashing them with his tail; still they clung, biting and stinging his flesh until blood flowed. The plains stretched on ahead with no companionship in sight. Poor, lonely Mogul! For days he had not tasted water. If he could but find a water hole, he would wallow and rid himself of the stinging pests. That night he reached a small, brackish pool of water and, dropping into a moist place, Mogul rolled about until he had made a fine hole about as long and wide as himself. Into this the water gradually oozed and, with a snort of joy, Mogul rolled his tormented body about, coating himself well with the wet clay which cured the biting stings. Early next morning a stray buffalo cow came to the pool; she was young and very pleasing, and Mogul's joy seemed complete, for he had found company. That night the pair caught up with the great herd and joined it. Black King, leader of the great herd, had never been crossed, but as soon as Mogul appeared he disapproved of him, because of his jealous disposition, for the old leader noticed that Mogul was fully as large as himself, and even more powerful—a born leader. The Black King was growing old; he feared this stranger might become a favourite with the herd, which might desert him, as they frequently did, for a younger leader. Whenever Mogul met Black King, the latter would charge savagely, bellowing mightily and throwing up great showers of earth with his hoofs and horns, to frighten Mogul. Then the eyes of Mogul would suddenly grow red with inner fires, and he would charge wildly at Black King. One day, somewhat to his surprise, the old leader actually backed off and away from Mogul, bellowing and calling his followers after him. Thus Mogul won a position of respect from the herd, a greater part of which took to following his leadership, others remaining loyal to Black King.

Grazing near the edge of a rocky canyon with a favourite cow and her calf one day, Mogul almost met his match in "Ezekiel," as the plainsmen had named the great grizzly bear—the terror of the Rockies. Ezekiel, full grown, and with four young cubs back in a den of the mountains with their mother, was seeking food. The young cubs needed fresh meat. Afar off, peering over the edges of the canyon, Ezekiel had sighted the three grazing figures of the buffaloes. Buffalo calf meat he intended to carry back to the waiting cubs. In and out crept the shambling figure of the great bear, taking care to keep low down among the underbrush, making for the site nearest the little calf, which was feeding somewhat apart from its mother's side.

With a snort, Mogul raised his heavy head; instantly he sighted the great hulking thing which was making its way towards the calf. With a wild bellow of rage, he charged straight for the waving underbrush, and as he came on Ezekiel, the terrible one, rose upon his great haunches and boldly faced Mogul, for the grizzly is absolute monarch of the plains, fearing no foe. For a moment Mogul, the fearless, was daunted by the sight of the tremendous creature facing him. With outstretched paws armed with great, razor-like claws, its wide, red mouth bared to show its cruel teeth, the bear came on with savage, thunder-like growls. It was unfortunate, however, that Ezekiel did not travel on all fours, for, seeing his advantage, the buffalo lowered its shaggy head, lunged straight for the unprotected stomach of the bear and, before it could even seize him in its terrible grasp, he had pinned its great body to earth, pressing his sharp horns, and making the bear howl for mercy. Then, after goring the bear well, without waiting to see whether Ezekiel was able to get up or not Mogul bellowed a summons; the cow and calf joined him, and they tore off to join the herd.

One day, as the herd was contentedly grazing together, Mogul and his followers, upon a small plateau which ended in a high cliff, across the plains came a band of hunting Indians. Once the herd becomes frightened it usually starts a stampede. One buffalo cow snorted in alarm, then the whole herd suddenly lost their heads, which was just what the Indians had planned. Wheeling about, Mogul led his herd straight away from the cliff, off towards a canyon. Alas for Black King! The Indians were behind him, and, completely losing his head, he charged across the plateau, heading for the cliff. Like thunder was the roar of the thousands of hoofs, which fairly shook the earth as they madly ran, following their leader to certain destruction. Roaring, bellowing, raising the dust in clouds, they ran. Too late! When at the very verge of the cliff Black King saw their peril, he swerved, bravely trying to turn back. Like an avalanche the herd rushed upon him, a great brown waving mass of heads and flashing hoofs, and over the cliff they fell. When the Indians went back to their village they held a festival and gave the great "dance of the war shield" to celebrate their fine hunt. They had enough buffalo meat to feed all the dogs of the village, and skins enough to keep the squaws busy curing them for many moons. Afterwards they had a great feast, and there was joy in every wigwam of the village.

Mogul led his herd for many years, and a mighty herd it became, spreading in thousands far across the plain. The mighty thunder of its passing might be heard very far off, and the dust, when it moved, arose on high until it almost reached the sky. Gradually, but surely, the great herd began to diminish and thin out. Once a terrific drought killed many of them. For days and weeks they journeyed, the vast herd seeking old, well-remembered buffalo wallows over the trails, but when reached they were found dried out. The buffaloes pawed and dug deeply into the arid, salt-caked holes for moisture, but none came. They died by thousands. Afterwards the settlers came across stacks of their bleaching bones, lying just where they had fallen. So, weakened and hungry, for the drought had killed off the scant herbage, they travelled on, ever westward. Merciless Indians drove them farther on, and hunters of the plains, who coveted their valuable skins, made after them. Finally the great herd, all that was left of it, split, as by common consent, and chose a younger leader for their thinned ranks. One day Mogul, the king of the old herd, found himself deserted, and left to wander alone upon the great plains. In vain he tried to follow the herd, but they soon out-distanced him, and he came to realise that his company was no longer wanted. For many years he wandered, always alone, occasionally seeing scattered remnants of the great herd, but gradually they dropped off, either killed by Indians or dying from starvation. Somehow, old Mogul managed to escape the wolves, the skulking coyotes, the mountain lions and the Indians. One day, utterly lonely, he sighted a vast herd. At first he thought they were buffaloes, but on coming up with them he saw they were long-horned red cattle, which had now taken the place of his lost tribe. Because he longed for company, Mogul joined the red cattle, and they did not molest or drive him away.

Now, out on a reservation, somewhere in the West, herding with the long-horned cattle of the plains, grazes Mogul, the old buffalo leader. His teeth are broken, but he still crops at the grass, and when he lifts his head you may see that he has but one horn; he lost the other in a fierce battle for his life with a grizzly. Sometimes the old buffalo lifts his great shaggy head and gazes straight out across the broad plains with his old, dim eyes and lows deeply and longingly, perhaps remembering his lost tribe and other days. When the cowboys round up the cattle, they often point out to strangers from the East a solitary old buffalo, grazing, usually somewhat apart from the cattle, on the edge of the herd, and then they say, not without some pride: "See that old buffalo out there. He was once leader of a well-known powerful tribe, but he is old, just how old we cannot say, and he's now the last great buffalo left of a mighty herd."

Tom and Ned Manning lived upon a farm in Northern Vermont. The Manning home was in a beautiful valley, and all about, as far as the eye could see, ranged the Green Mountains; the range which towered over this valley was called Cushman.

The boys were quite elated one day when their father told them he would have to send them over the mountain to a far-off lumber camp, upon a very important errand. This meant a two days' holiday for them, no school, and plenty of adventure in the woods.

"We'll start early," called Tom to his brother, already splitting his next morning's wood. "And if we have good luck, we can reach camp early in the afternoon. Snow-shoeing will be dandy, and say, we can just about ski down on the crusts, going down."

"That's so; it's going to be a bully trip," replied Ned, "and mother's sure to put us up a big feed. Say, somehow mother doesn't like the idea of us two going alone over the mountain. Guess it's because the Eatons have been losing their sheep; and now the Strongs have lost a young calf, some think there's something big and wild around loose on the mountain somewhere—a panther, or something like that."

"Joe Strong said their calf never strayed away," replied Tom, "but father thinks it did. He thinks dogs got the sheep anyway, and he says nowadays there isn't anything big enough on the mountains to carry off such a big creature as a calf—hasn't been, for years. Anyhow, I'm not a coward. Say, let's ask for grandfather's gun to take with us," suggested Ned.

The boys went to bed early that night, so as to get started by sunrise. The morning was keen, cold and sparkly, and the sun shone out upon the snow crusts as it came peeping over the pointed spruces on the summit of the mountain, and made them sparkle as if sprinkled with trillions of diamonds. They stowed away the ample lunch which their mother had put up, and Tom shouldered the old gun, while Ned carried the gum pole. They had decided to halt at a certain grove of giant spruces, half-way up Cushman, which they meant to visit for gum. The pole was long enough to reach into a tall tree, at the end was a sharp knife, and just beneath this a small cup, so that when the gum was chipped off, instead of falling down and being lost beneath among the pine needles, it dropped right into the cup.

Soon the boys left the steep hilly pastures, the foot-hills of the mountains, behind them, and began climbing the side of old Cushman.

"Look ahead, Ned; we're right in range of some dandy old spruces," called back Tom, who forged on ahead with the gun. "See, just beyond that ledge up there, we'll halt and get our gum, then we can soon climb up top and have our lunch. It won't take us long to go down. Come on; we must have that gum; it'll be good picking."

"Say, guess that ledge ahead must be Vulture Cliff; looks as if we're kind of off the main trail. We never strike off quite so far east as this, do we?" asked Ned, halting to look up at the great black, snow-capped crag which towered above them, jutting far out over the valley. They halted just below, and visited some giant spruces which, to their joy, yielded such a fine harvest of gum that they hated to leave the grove.

"We got to be making tracks now, I guess, Ned. Come on."

Just then Ned chipped off a splendid lump of amber gum from his tree, and still higher up he saw several large nuggets clinging temptingly to the brown spruce trunk. As prime gum would readily fetch a dollar a pound, these Vermont boys, to whom pocket money was rare, were reluctant to leave it behind.

Tom insisted upon their going on. "We've got to go on right off, Ned. But say, we'll come up on purpose some time when we don't have to go over the mountain."

Soon they were directly beneath the grim shadow of Vulture Cliff; it would be a stiff climb to go around it, and this they found they must do to reach the summit of the mountain. They had halted a second to get breath, when Tom spied a queer-looking object lying just beneath the crag upon the snow, and went to investigate.

"What is it?" called down Ned curiously.

"Come on down and see!" shouted back Tom, and soon the two boys were staring at their find—a great bone, the knuckle joint of a cow, having the hoof still attached. The bone had been gnawed, but was still fresh.

"Great Scott! What do you think of that?" exclaimed Tom excitedly. "It's surely some young creature's hoof, and whatever was gnawing it surely dropped it down from the ledge above, I believe." The boys had sudden misgivings. What could it have been?

"Say, Tom, it must have been something big and fierce and hungry to carry off a big bone like that. Perhaps the bone belonged to that heifer that was lost," suggested Ned.

"Might have," commented Tom, taking in the situation, which suggested to him the idea of getting away from the lonely spot as soon as possible. Besides, it was evident that much time had already been taken up with their gumming, more than they had meant to take, and now, to their dismay, they discovered suddenly that the sun had disappeared; great clouds were swiftly gathering about them, while down below in the valley, already the snow whirled thickly. A swift storm had arisen, as is often the case in these mountains. It had been brooding, but the boys had not noticed it. Already the giant spruces rocked and tossed far above, as the biting wind whined through their tops. The boys realised their best plan now was to make for the nearest shelter, or they were liable to be overtaken by a blizzard on the mountains, and so lose their way. Swifter and faster swirled the snow; it shut them off completely from everything, blinding them and stinging their faces like fine needles. Nothing but vapour and clouds all about, and they were off the main trail. They forged on ahead, climbing bravely up and up, sliding back at each step, but clinging to small spruces to keep from slipping.

Nemox, the fisher, who lived in the hollow of a great pine tree in the depths of the marsh country, lay stretched out flat upon a lofty limb of his home tree, intently watching a clumsy black figure which shuffled through the aisles of the pines far beneath him.

He thought the black, shadowy figure must be Moween, the black bear, but not feeling quite certain about it, Nemox peeped down over the limb curiously, hanging over as far as he dared, keeping his position upon the limb by digging his claws in deeply. His eyes sparkled maliciously and cunningly as he made sure that it actually was Moween herself. Then he knew she had come straight from her den up on Porcupine Ridge to forage for food, because down below, on the needle-strewn floor of the forest, Moween knew she could find plenty of prey for the taking. Close hidden beneath the low-hanging branches of the spruce bush, she sometimes came across a frightened partridge, and the roots of the pines were simply riddled with rabbit burrows. One might always rout out a sleepy hedgehog or two, if there chanced to be nothing better, for Moween knew the secret of avoiding its terrible quills and searching out the creature's weak spot without injury to her own snout. So while Moween rummaged about, waddling in and out among the bushes, snuffing and grunting as she threw over a rotting log with her great padded foot, Nemox, the crafty one, continued to watch her and think deeply. Very well he knew that the old mother bear had left her two innocent furry little cubs back in her den, up on the side of the mountain. Nemox, the fisher, in one of his cat-like rambles, had run across them one day, just outside their door, cuffing each other about, and rolling over each other like kittens, as their mother watched them fondly. Well Nemox knew that the two cubs were still too young to follow their mother long distances, or down the steep ledges, so of course, he reasoned, they must be at home, alone and unprotected, this very minute.

Instantly Nemox had made his plans, and while the little black mother bear had buried her whole head in a hollow log, hoping to find honey, Nemox began to slide and claw himself down out of the pine tree, being careful, of course, to climb down upon the far side that Moween should not spy him. Then, like a fleet shadow, he slipped off through the thick underbrush, and following the wide swath of the mother bear's trail, he set out for her den.

Everybody knows that Nemox, the fisher, is the craftiest, most savage and powerful fighter of his age in the marshes, and most of his kindred feared him, giving him a wide berth. Nemox belonged to the cat family, and was sometimes called "the black cat of the woods." Sinuous of body and not unlike his cousin the weasel, only larger, he could readily leap forty or fifty feet, and always landed, cat-like, upon his prey. To all this was added great knowledge of woodcraft and reasoning powers, for the clever fisher had easily studied out the fact that the bear had left her cubs unprotected. No wonder then that the fisher was reckoned as a terror of the marsh country, for it took the craftiest of the wild to outwit him.

In and out between the rocky ledges and tall ferns, always heading for the bear's den, travelled Nemox, and just as he drew near the spot where the little mother bear had cleverly hidden her den, he came right upon the little cubs, who were just outside the entrance of the den, and lay rolling over each other, having a regular frolic, cuffing at a swarm of black butterflies which fluttered about the milkweed blossoms. But the pretty sight of the round furry babies of Moween at play did not for an instant touch the cruel heart of the fisher, who merely bared his sharp teeth as he hid behind a convenient blackberry bush, watching them.

With twitching tail and whiskers, cat-like, the fisher began to creep stealthily towards his prey, flattening his lithe body and keeping out of sight as he crept nearer and nearer the innocent cubs. A swift dart, and he shot straight through the air and launched himself upon one of the cubs, while the other one sat up in amazement and began to whimper like a frightened child. Soon Nemox was busy with tooth and nail over the limp carcass of the cub, when suddenly his keen ear caught the sound of a stealthy pad, pad, pad; so light a footstep it was that no one but Nemox could have heard it. Instantly, fearing the return of the mother bear, Nemox left the wounded cub, for he had no notion of letting Moween, the angry mother, catch him at his cruel work, as well Nemox knew that with one blow of her great paw, armed with its lance-like claws, she could strike him to earth. He realised he would be no match for her unless he chanced to catch her napping.

So the fisher drew off, watching his chances from a safe distance, for, if the truth were known, Nemox was in some respects, unless cornered, cowardly. He slunk into the shadow of a dark ledge, where his dark fur blended so well with the gloom that he remained completely concealed. He realised that he had taken himself off just in time, for the next instant the tall brakes were thrust aside; but instead of the mother bear making her appearance, who should peer out but Eelemos, the fox. Very cautiously the fox came forth from the bushes, and peered out in rather surprised fashion upon the scene before him; the badly wounded cub, and the other one, who still whimpered and whined helplessly, crying for its mother. Now the fox chanced to be very hungry, and the sight of the wounded cub tempted him. So he crept warily forward, his yellow eyes all agleam, and so intent was the fox upon the coming feast that he paid no attention to the other cub's little whine of joy and recognition as a great, black, furry bulk fairly tore its way through the thick jungle. Mad with rage and fear Moween's little red eyes flashed with anger as she caught sight of the fox and her wounded cub, and with one great bound she was upon him, growling terribly, and then, before the fox could even defend himself, the mother bear had laid him low, and soon all that remained of the proud, sly fox was just a battered red pelt, and a bedraggled, limp brush. Then Moween went back to attend to the little wounded cub, uttering low whines of distress, and lapping it tenderly, trying to revive it.

All this time Nemox, the fisher, was peering out at her from a crack in the ledge, and he had seen the awful fate of Eelemos, the fox, and was very thankful he had got away from the den just in time. Now the fisher had not chanced to select the best spot for his hiding-place, for at the back of the ledge was the home of Unk-Wunk, the hedgehog, who had been asleep inside all the time, curled up in a round ball, until, finally, Nemox had so crowded him that he became impatient and suddenly unrolling himself, just to teach the intruder better manners, he gave him a smart slap across his sneaky pointed snout with his dreadful quilly tail. Nemox was so taken by surprise that, stifling his angry snarls so the mother bear might not hear him, he sneaked back home to the pine forest, his snout full of sharp quills, and spent most of the night spitting crossly and trying to pull them out of his burning flesh.

Next morning, bright and early, Nemox started off hunting once more. He climbed many trees looking for game, but in vain; he even found no partridges roosting down in lower branches, as usual, for already they had left their nightly haunts. At last Nemox reached the foot of a giant larch tree, and right in the top of its branches he spied a great loose bundle of leaves and twigs.

"Ah," thought Nemox, "the hawks have a young family up there, or possibly there are eggs in the nest; so much the better," for Nemox loved eggs almost more than a young hawk. Very hungry was Nemox by this time, so he began to climb the tree. At last he reached a limb where he could peer into the nest. He was thankful that the old hawks were away, for there were eggs in the nest. Nemox knew he must hasten, for a brooding hawk is never long away from her eggs. Flattening himself close to the limb Nemox crawled to it, and had just sampled one egg when, with a sudden, wild rush of whirling wings, the mother hawk landed right upon his back, digging her sharp talons into his quivering flesh, as he snarled and spit and tore in her grasp. Finally, with a swift twist of his agile body, Nemox managed to reach the throat of the hawk, and in spite of the beating wings, which nearly thrashed the breath from his body, Nemox clung and clung to the hawk's throat, until they both fell to earth. And then Nemox had his first decent meal for days, and afterwards he climbed up to the nest and finished off the eggs, which he did not forget.

Now high above the nest of the hawk, and over towards the lake, stood a lonely hemlock tree, its limbs broken off by storm after storm. Upon the summit of this tree Quoskh, the great blue heron, came year after year to build her nest and raise her brood. From her high nest, where she sat with the young herons, now just out of their pin-feather age, the mother heron could plainly look down upon her neighbour the hawk, and saw all the terrible tragedy which took place. She saw the dark, slim body of Nemox, the robber of the marshes, as he battled with the mother hawk, and then the end of it all. Quoskh, the heron, was afraid for her own young, so much so that for a long while afterwards she dreaded to leave them alone long enough to fly off after food. Soon, however, they became large enough to fly to the lake with her, and she was glad. But Quoskh never forgot about the hateful fisher, and always hoped that some day she might get the better of him.

Right in the heart of the marsh-land lay Black Lake. Spread out like a sheet of molten lead it lay, its lonely waters walled about by thick jungles of sedge and cat-tails; a desolate spot, seldom visited by man, but known and haunted by all the kindred of the wild. You might trace their well-worn trails through the swamp on all sides. Here came Moween, the black bear, and her one cub, for the other she had lost. The sharp teeth of Nemox had done their work. On the edge of the lake Unk-Wunk, the porcupine, loved to loaf, digging out lily roots, and towards night, when shadows crept over the water, Nemox, the fisher, would sneak down, hoping to trap some little wild thing.

One day about twilight, when the little herons were half-grown, a large colony of herons came to the lake. It was approaching time for their annual colonizing plans, and they always meet and talk it over. Down they flocked in droves, on wide azure wings, calling to each other their lonely salute, "Quoskh, quoskh." And after standing on the pebbly shore solemnly upon one foot for a while, at a signal they all began to dance a most fantastic sort of a dance, which is called "the heron dance." Many were the curious eyes watching the strange dance of the herons. Among them was Nemox, the fisher, who almost forgot to hide himself, so taken up in watching the herons was he. However, as he watched them a sudden fascinating odour came to his nostrils and he forgot everything else—it was catnip.

Soon he reached the bed of catnip, all silvery green leaves, sparkling with dew. He nibbled and ate, until finally, overcome completely by the fascinating odour, he simply lay down and rolled about, purring like a cat for sheer delight. He felt dreamy and care-free. But just as he was enjoying himself supremely, down floated the wide wings of Quoskh, the great blue heron, and with two stabs of her sword-like beak she had blinded Nemox, and with her wings beaten the breath completely out of his body.

Then, triumphantly, the heron spread her great blue wings and flew off into the twilight, calling "Quoskh, quoskh, quoskh" to her mate across the silence of the marshes.

THE BOTOLPH
PRINTING WORKS,
8, GATE STREET,
KINGSWAY, W.C.2