cackle berries. I looked around, couldn't see any sort of fruit on the
table, and, remembering the cook's injunction to eat what he set before
me, I answered: "No, thank you; but I'll have an egg, please." After
the laughter had subsided, White Mountain explained that cackle berries
were eggs!

I told the rangers about the mice in my house, and the cook overheard
the conversation. A little later a teamster appeared at my cabin with a
tiny gray kitten hidden under his coat.

"Cook said you have mice, Miss. I've brought 'Tuffy' to you. Please keep
him hid from the rangers. He has lived in the barn with me up to now."

With such a loyal protector things took a turn for the better, and my
Indian friend, my wee gray cat, and myself dwelt happily in our little
Grayhaven.




[Illustration]

_Chapter II: "THIS AIN'T WASHINGTON!"_


"This ain't Washington, and we don't keep bankers' hours here," was the
slogan of the Superintendent. He spoke that phrase, chanted it, and sang
it. He made a litany of it; he turned it into a National Anthem. It came
with such irritating regularity I could have sworn he timed it on a
knotted string, sort of "Day-by-day-in-every-way" tempo, one might say.