n time to fill yer
cubbud,--winter's a-comin'! Them leetle birches on Bog-eddy is turnin'
yeller,--that's the fust sign. 'Fore ye knows it snow'll be flyin'. Then
whar'll ye be with everything froze tighter'n Sampson bound the heathen,
you cunnin' leetle skitterin' pups. Then I presaume likely ye'll come
a-drulin' raound an' want me an' George should gin ye suthin to git
through th' winter on,--won't they, George?"

"Beats all," he said to me that night, "how thoughtful some dogs is.
Hadn't been fer George to-day, I'd clean forgot them leetle folks. I see
him scratching raound in the leaves an' I knowed right away what he wuz
thinkin' of."

Often when I was sketching in the dense forest, Jonathan would lie down
beside me, the old flop of a hat under his head, his talk rambling on.

"I don't wonder ye like to paint 'em. Thar hain't nothin' so human as
trees. Take thet big hemlock right in front er yer. Hain't he led a pretty
decent life? See how praoud an' tall he's growed, with them arms of his'n
straight aout an' them leetle chillen of his'n spraouting up raound him. I
tell ye them hemlocks is pretty decent people. Now take a look at them two
white birches down by thet big rock. Ain't it a shame the way them fellers
hez been goin' on sence they wuz leetle saplin's, makin' it so nothin'
could grow raound 'em,--with their jackets all ragged an' tore like
tramps, an' their toes all out of their shoes whar ther roots is stickin'
clear of the bark,--ain't they a-ketchin' it in their ole age? An' then
foller on daown whar thet leetle bunch er silver maples is dancin' in the
sunlight, so slender an' cunnin',--all aout in their summer dresses,
julluk a bevy er young gals,--ain't they human like? I tell ye, trees is
the humanest things thet is."

These talks with me made George restless. He was never happy unless
Jonathan had _him_ on his mind.

But it was a cluster of daisies that first lifted the inner lid of
Jonathan's heart for me. I was away up the side of the Notch overlooking
the valley, my easel and canvas lashed to a tree, the wind blew so, when
Jonathan came toiling up the slope, a precipice in fact, with a tin can
strapped to his back, filled with hot corn and some doughnuts, and threw
himself beside me, the sweat running down his weather-tanned neck.

"So long ez we know whar you're settin' at work it ain't nat'ral to let ye
starve, be it?" throwing himself beside me. George had started ahead of
him and had be