was hurt. My father and D'ri were busy half a day "righting up,"
as they called it, mending the tongue and cover, and getting the
cart on its wheels and down the steep pitch.

After two days of trail travel we came out on the Chateaugay road,
stopping awhile to bait our sheep and cattle on the tame grass and
tender briers. It was a great joy to see the clear road, with here
and there a settler's cabin, its yard aglow with the marigold, the
hollyhock, and the fragrant honeysuckle. We got to the tavern at
Chateaugay about dusk, and put up for the night, as becomes a
Christian.

Next afternoon we came to rough roads again, camping at sundown
along the shore of a noisy brook. The dog began to bark fiercely
while supper was making, and scurried off into a thicket.

D'ri was stooping over, cooking the meat. He rose and listened.

"Thet air dog's a leetle scairt," said he. "Guess we better go 'n'
see whut 's the matter."

He took his rifle and I my sword,--I never thought of another
weapon,--making off through the brush. The dog came whining to
D'ri and rushing on, eager for us to follow. We hurried after him,
and in a moment D'ri and the dog, who were ahead of me, halted
suddenly.

"It 's a painter," said D'ri, as I came up. "See 'im in thet air
tree-top. I 'll larrup 'im with Ol' Beeswax, then jes' like es not
he 'll mek some music. Better grab holt o' the dog. 'T won't dew