rroundings.

"Seems 'ough it warn't never goin' to clear up," remarked Hite Holt,
the trapper, slipping the well-worn straps from his great shoulders
and staggering with ninety pounds of dead weight until he deposited it
in the driest corner of the shanty. Then he added with a good-natured
smile: "Say, we come quite a piece, hain't we?"

During the conversation the dog stalked solemnly about, took a careful
look at the shanty and its surroundings and disappeared in the thick
timber in the direction of the brook. The trapper turned and looked
after him, and a wistful, almost apologetic expression came into his
face.

"I presume likely the old dog is sore about something," he remarked,
when the hound was well out of hearing. "He's been kind er down in the
mouth all day."

"'Twarn't nothin' we said 'bout huntin' over to Lily Pond, was it?"
ventured Freme.

"No--guess not," replied the trapper thoughtfully. "But you know
you've got to handle him jest so. He's gettin' techier and older every
day."

Imaginative as a child, with a subtle humour, often inventing stories
that were weird and impossible, this strange character had lived the
life of a hermit and a wanderer in the wilderness--a life compelling
him to seek his companions among the trees or the black sides of
the towering mountains. All nature, to him, was human--the dog was a
being.

The Clown swung his double-bitted axe into a dry hemlock, the keen
blade sinking deeper and deeper into the tree with each successive
stroke, made with the precision and rapidity of a piston, until the
tree fell with a sweeping crash (it had been as smoothly severed as if
by a saw) and the two soon had its full length cut up and piled near
the shanty for night wood.

It was not much of a shelter. Its timbered door had sagged from its
hinges, its paneless square windows afforded but poor protection
from wind and rain, while a cook stove, not worth the carrying away,
supported itself upon two legs in one corner of the rotting interior.

Stout hands and willing hearts, however, did their work, and by the
next sundown a new roof had been put on the shanty, "The Pride of the
Home" wired more securely upon its two rusty legs and the long bunk
flanking one side of the shanty neatly thatched with a deep bed of
springy balsam. Thus had the tumble-down log-house been transformed
into a tight and comfortable camp.

* * * * *

The next morning (the rain