the sound. It was eloquent of earnest pleading. With
the lonely bird on one side, and the reproachful dog eyes
on the other, the man grinned rather foolishly.

Between two fires, he thought. If that dog ever
catches my eye he will come tearing as a cyclone, and I
would not kick him again for a hundred dollars. First
time I ever struck him, and didn't intend to then. So
blame mad and disappointed my foot just shot out before
I knew it. There he lies half dead to make up, but I'm
blest if I forgive him in a hurry. And there is that
insane little owl screeching for a mate. If I'd start out
making sounds like that, all the girls would line up and
compete for possession of my happy home.

The Harvester laughed and at the sound Belshazzar
took courage and advanced five steps before he sank belly
to earth again. The owl continued its song. The Harvester
imitated the cry and at once it responded. He
called again and leaned back waiting. The notes came
closer. The Harvester cried once more and peered across
the lake, watching for the shadow of silent wings. The
moon was high above the trees now, the knife dropped in
the box, the long fingers closed around the stick, the head
rested against the casing, and the man intoned the cry
with all his skill, and then watched and waited. He had
been straining his eyes over the carving until they were
tired, and when he watched for the bird the moonlight
tried them; for it touched the lightly rippling waves of
the lake in a line of yellow light that stretched straight