ed into the Limberlost. He recovered himself and gazed after her in
astonishment.

Freckles hurried down the trail, shaking with laughter. When he neared
the path to the clearing and saw the Boss sitting motionless on the mare
that was the pride of his heart, the boy broke into a run.

"Oh, Mr. McLean!" he cried. "I hope I haven't kept you waiting very
long! And the sun is getting hot! I have been so slow this morning! I
could have gone faster, only there were that many things to keep me, and
I didn't know you would be here. I'll hurry after this. I've never had
to be giving excuses before. The line wasn't down, and there wasn't a
sign of trouble; it was other things that were making me late."

McLean, smiling on the boy, immediately noticed the difference in him.
This flushed, panting, talkative lad was not the same creature who had
sought him in despair and bitterness. He watched in wonder as Freckles
mopped the perspiration from his forehead and began to laugh. Then,
forgetting all his customary reserve with the Boss, the pent-up
boyishness in the lad broke forth. With an eloquence of which he never
dreamed he told his story. He talked with such enthusiasm that McLean
never took his eyes from his face or shifted in the saddle until he
described the strange bird-lover, and then the Boss suddenly bent over
the pommel and laughed with the boy.

Freckles decorated his story with keen appreciation and rare touches
of Irish wit and drollery that made it most interesting as well as very
funny. It was a first attempt at descriptive narration. With an inborn
gift for striking the vital point, a naturalist's dawning enthusiasm for
the wonders of the Limberlost, and the welling joy of his newly found
happiness, he made McLean see the struggles of the moth and its freshly
painted wings, the dainty, brilliant bird-mates of different colors, the
feather sliding through the clear air, the palpitant throat and batting
eyes of the frog; while his version of the big bird's courtship won for
the Boss the best laugh he had enjoyed for years.

"They're in the middle of a swamp now" said Freckles. "Do you suppose
there is any chance of them staying with me chickens? If they do,
they'll be about the queerest I have; but I tell you, sir, I am finding
some plum good ones. There's a new kind over at the mouth of the creek
that uses its wings like feet and walks on all fours. It travels like a
thrashing machine. There's another, tall as me