o come?"

"Huntin' what?" asked Mally.

"We're not sure, but we'll take anything we can find, even little
boys!" teased Cleo.

"Oh, will you!" Mally fired back. "You don't have to. Say, Madaline,
I know where there's some Jack-in-the-Pulpits," he added, sidling up to
Madaline. "The kind you were looking for the other day. Jack Hagan is
going to meet me over by the creek at ten, and if you girls want to
come along I'll show you where to hunt things."

"No bears?" protested Cleo.

"Well, there's weasles and mink in that creek, and you'd think they
were bears if one of those grabbed you," Mally declared.

"Lead the way!" ordered Grace, mounting her staff on her shoulder, and
the little hunters started off.

"Say, Mally," began Cleo, as they struck a clearance in the otherwise
tangled brush and bramble path, "do you ever see a little girl who has
big long braids, and never wears a hat?"

"Sure," replied the boy. "That's Mary. Her old granddad's a nut."

"Has she a granddad?" Cleo followed. "I knew it. A girl like that
always has. Where do they live?"

"Don't you know? Huh!" Mally answered scornfully. "Thought everybody
knew old Doc Benson. He's a nut on flowers and growin' things."

"But where does he live? Could we go near his house?" Grace asked
eagerly.

"If the old lady doesn't chase you," replied the boy, making a running
jump over a huge stone, one of the many bowlder rocks that continually
roll down the mountain.

"Suppose she does. She can't hurt us, can she?" pursued Cleo.

"One of the fellows said she hurt him all right," declared Mally. "She
shook him 'til he lost all his marbles. Hey, Jack!" he yelled, cupping
his hands to his red lips. "Here we are, over near the swamp!"

Jack evidently spied his chum at that moment, for although tall brush
obstructed his view of the hunters, he answered with a "Whoo-hoo," and
ran along in their direction. It took but a few moments for him to
reach the party.

"I'm late," he apologized, his grin and freckles supplying real local
color to the dramatic statement. "Had to dig a big fern root for Mary."

"Oh, for our Mary--the queer Mary?" exclaimed Grace.

"They call her Maid Mary," went on Jack, "but she ain't big enough to
be no maid. She couldn't cook nor nuthin'."

"Maid Mary!" repeated Cleo. "That's awfully romantic. Wherever did
she get the maid tacked on?"

"That's her name," insisted Jack. "She al'lus says it is, when you ask