rown owl asking for a mate to come and live
in his hollow tree. Now he rather liked the sound. It was eloquent of
earnest pleading. With the lonely bird on one side, and the reproachful
dog eyes on the other, the man grinned rather foolishly.

Between two fires, he thought. If that dog ever catches my eye he will
come tearing as a cyclone, and I would not kick him again for a hundred
dollars. First time I ever struck him, and didn't intend to then. So
blame mad and disappointed my foot just shot out before I knew it. There
he lies half dead to make up, but I'm blest if I forgive him in a hurry.
And there is that insane little owl screeching for a mate. If I'd start
out making sounds like that, all the girls would line up and compete for
possession of my happy home.

The Harvester laughed and at the sound Belshazzar took courage and
advanced five steps before he sank belly to earth again. The owl
continued its song. The Harvester imitated the cry and at once it
responded. He called again and leaned back waiting. The notes came
closer. The Harvester cried once more and peered across the lake,
watching for the shadow of silent wings. The moon was high above the
trees now, the knife dropped in the box, the long fingers closed around
the stick, the head rested against the casing, and the man intoned
the cry with all his skill, and then watched and waited. He had been
straining his eyes over the carving until they were tired, and when
he watched for the bird the moonlight tried them; for it touched the
lightly rippling waves of the lake in a line of yellow light that
stretched straight across the water from the opposite bank, directly to
the gravel bed below, where lay the bathing pool. It made a path of gold
that wavered and shimmered as the water moved gently, but it appeared
sufficiently material to resemble a bridge spanning the lake.

"Seems as if I could walk it," muttered the Harvester.

The owl cried again and the man intently watched the opposite bank. He
could not see the bird, but in the deep wood where he thought it might
be he began to discern a misty, moving shimmer of white. Marvelling, he
watched closer. So slowly he could not detect motion it advanced, rising
in height and taking shape.

"Do I end this day by seeing a ghost?" he queried.

He gazed intently and saw that a white figure really moved in the woods
of the opposite bank.

"Must be some boys playing fool pranks!" exclaimed the Harvester.

He