the yell of a healthy youngster in great
distress. As the trigger yielded, Johnny and the baby had keeled heels
over head backward into the soft moss, and Johnny had fallen on the
baby.

The boy arose a little dazed, lifted the howling infant to its feet, and
then looked toward the boat. The bear was there--crushed beneath the
iron. From one side of the mass projected the animal's hind-quarters,
from the other its front, and there were the glaring eyes and savage
open jaws. It was enough. Johnny grabbed the baby and started for the
house.

Johnny was perfectly convinced that the bear was dead, very dead, but he
didn't propose to take any chances. He liked adventure, but he was
satisfied with the quantity for one afternoon. He was young, but he knew
when he had enough. He dragged the baby inside, bolted the door, and
waited. At about six o'clock in the evening his father and mother
returned. Johnny didn't have much to say when he opened the door and
came out with the baby to meet them, but for a man of his size his chest
protruded somewhat phenomenally. He told his story. His mother caught up
the fat baby and kissed it. His father took him by the hand, and they
went down and looked at the bear. Tears came in the man's eyes as he
laid his hand on Johnny's head.

Along in January or February it was worth one's while to be up in
Michigan where they were building a sawmill. It was worth one's while to
note the appearance of a young man, nine years of age or thereabouts,
who would saunter out of the log house along in the afternoon, advance
toward the river, and then, with his legs spread wide apart, his hands
in his pockets, and his hat stuck on the back of his head, stand on a
small knoll and look down upon the spot where _he_ killed a bear the day
before Christmas. It was worth one's while to note the expression upon
his countenance as he stood there and as he finally stalked away,
whistling Yankee Doodle, with perhaps, a slight lack of precision, but
with tremendous spirit and significance.

AT THE GREEN TREE CLUB

Tom Oldfield sat comfortably over his newspaper in his big chair at the
Green Tree Club. He gave a good-natured swing of his shoulders, but
heaved a sigh when he was told that two ladies desired to see him
immediately on important business. The well-trained club servant, a
colored man, gave the message with a knowing look, subdued by respectful
sympathy.

Now, Tom Oldfield was well known for his