shrivelled by the fires of his daily life.

Rolf had no chance to seek for companions at the
village store, but an accident brought one to him.
Before sunrise one spring morning he went, as usual,
to the wood lot pasture for the cow, and was surprised to
find a stranger, who beckoned him to come. On going
near he saw a tall man with dark skin and straight black
hair that was streaked with gray -- undoubtedly an Indian.
He held up a bag and said, "I got coon in that hole. You
hold bag there, I poke him in." Rolf took the sack
readily and held it over the hole, while the Indian climbed
the tree to a higher opening, then poked in this with a long
pole, till all at once there was a scrambling noise and the
bag bulged full and heavy. Rolf closed its mouth
triumphantly. The Indian laughed lightly, then swung to the
ground.

"Now, what will you do with him?" asked Rolf.

"Train coon dog," was the answer.

"Where?"

The Indian pointed toward the Asamuk Pond.

"Are you the singing Indian that lives under Ab's Rock?

"Ugh!* Some call me that. My name is Quonab."