"Well, I don't know. Grandpa Oldberry says the varmints are
awfully thick this fall."

"But what are varmints?"

"Oh, wolves, and b'ars, and painters, and--"

"What are painters?"

"Grandpa means panthers, I guess. Then there's Injuns, and
hoss-thieves, and--"

"There's a prairie-chicken!" I cried, as one rose up out of
the long grass.

"Perhaps we can get one for dinner," said Jack.

[Illustration: Mutiny of the Pony]

He took his gun and went slowly toward where the other had
been. Another whirred away like a shot. Jack fired, but missed
it. We started on, leaving the pony tossing her head and stamping
her feet in a great passion on account of the report of the gun;
but when she saw that we paid no attention to her and were
rapidly going out of sight she turned, after taking a long look
back at distant Prairie Flower, and came trotting along the road,
with her stirrups dangling at her sides, and soon was following
close behind.