As I sat at my semicircular desk before the wide windows in our northwoods cabin, a startling realization dawned on me. I had spring fever! There was no sense in it, for this was the fall season. Nevertheless the symptoms were unmistakable. About me were piled mounds of papers representing work partly done or waiting to be done. I paid no attention to it, but sat staring idly out over the lake, now sparkling as if strewn with diamonds. In my typewriter was inserted a much neglected sheet of paper on which had been written "Page one"—hours ago, and nothing added to it. I stared past this, too, and watched the flight of an oak leaf as it left a tree and fluttered slowly to earth, hesitating as if it were selecting a comfortable spot in which to spend the winter.
     I couldn't blame myself entirely. It was a strange autumn. There were few of the foretastes of cold weather we expect at this season in the north country. Soft breezes designed for May and June brought unseasonable warmth as though Nature had someway skipped winter and by short cut had entered another spring. The carnival of autumn reached its colorful climax amid temperatures that brought new bloom to some summer flowers. The flaring red of maple leaves, the maroon of oaks, the golden yellow of aspens fairly flamed against azure skies. Birds were puzzled too. Migrants forgot their travel plans.

Feathered crooners broke out with serenades designed for mating season. We heard the full song of the white­throated sparrow, the complete aria of the purple finch, and the murmuring melodies of Brewer's blackbirds and tree sparrows. From high in the blue skies came the cries of ravens and crows, sounding like the laughing of Nature itself at the tricks she was playing with her seasons.
     Giny contributed greatly to my malady. She had chosen this hour to bake cookies—the same kind she had made that wonderful day in May when we had returned to our Sanctuary. Their aroma drifted to me, lulling my drowsy senses pleasantly.
     Hi-Bub added his part also. He was just outside the cabin door, playing with chipmunks, squirrels, blue jays, nuthatches, chickadees and the many other birds that came to his feet to accept the food he offered them. I listened to his endless chatter, mingled with the happy voices of his wildwood guests.
     "Blooey, you're a thwell bird!” said the lad. "Come on, here-th a peanut. No, not you, Th-tubby," he directed a reprimand to our ambitious chipmunk. "Thith one ith for Blooey. Oh—I didn't mean to thcare you. Here-th one for you. Don't bite my finger. That-th no peanut. Quick! Run! Here come-th Th-till-Mo. Hurry!"
     There was a wild flurry among the feeding creatures as our dynamic red squirrel entered the circle like a whirlwind. Stubby the chipmunk scampered for his underground home. Blue jays rose to the safety of trees. Other birds headed for distant points.
     "Now lookut what you do!" cried Hi-Bub, who was

always trying to make peace between the conflicting species. "Th-till-Mo, do you have to chaith everything? Couldn't you walk? All right, here-th a peanut—but after thith be nith."
     Still-Mo, the old red squirrel who had lived with us for several years, apparently took the peanut and scampered away. Other creatures returned as the disturbing element disappeared from the scene. The feeding went on, and so did Hi-Bub's chatter. It was just the kind of thing that fitted my mood. I could listen in with no effort. It demanded nothing of me.
     Hi-Bub was a boyish boy now living at those wonderful years that are a blending of bud and blossom. Childhood was still evident in fat hands, plump cheeks, a delightful lisp and a self-inflammatory imagination. Yet manhood was peering through—in his eyes, his mannerisms, his questions, and in his character.
     I fell to thinking about him. It was easy to do, for I love him so much. He is not our son, though he could not mean more to us if he were. His love of Nature had paved the way for our companionship. His home was in a village some miles away where he attended school. Because of his intense interest in our animals and the Sanctuary, his parents "lent" him to us each Saturday and Sunday. I had the conviction that the rest of the week was just a period of waiting for these days in the forest, as far as he was concerned. Right in the midst of this meditation, I was startled by his voice calling me in great excitement.
     "Tham Cammel! Tham Cammel! Come quick! Come quick!"

     I went quickly. There was a quality in his cry that frightened me. I thought at least a tree must have fallen on him. Papers I had so carefully arranged went fluttering to the floor in disorder. Books flew to the far corners of the cabin as I dashed out the front door to cause another scene of wild confusion there. A score of birds rose with a flurry of wings that blew autumn leaves hither and yon. Stubby and all the other diners raced for points of safety. In a second the feeding station was cleared of its customers, and there sat Hi-Bub looking up at me as calm as you please, not the victim of a tree falling or any other kind of calamity.
     "Oh, oh—you thcared 'im!" he exclaimed.
     "You mean frightened—frightened is the better word," I said. My spring fever had vanished under the effect of excitement. "What or whom did I frighten?"
     "Oh, yeth," agreed the boy, "I forgot. I mean frighten. He wuth here, he wuth right here, and you thcared him." 
     "Frightened."
     "Yeth."
     "But, Hi-Bub, tell me, whom did I scare—I mean frighten? I heard you call and I nearly knocked the side out of the cabin to get to you. Now here you are with nothing wrong. What was the matter? Who was here?"
     "It wuth him, all right," insisted the boy.
     "It was he."
     "Yeth, that-th what I thaid, it wuth him."
     "He!”
     “Yeth."

     "All right, let's overlook the grammar—who was here and whom did I scare?"
     "It wuth Cheer," said the boy, with enthusiasm. "Cheer wuth right here an' I thaw him!" He pointed with a crooked little finger to a balsam tree very close at hand.
     I drew a deep breath and looked at the lad with tolerant amusement. He was such an adept at tall stories of his own concoction it was difficult to know what to believe. Cheer, the red-winged blackbird, had been one of the grand surprises of the summer. The sleek creature had taken to us in a manner that amazed and delighted us. He appeared one day at the feeding station and immediately made himself perfectly at home. From the start he had no fear of us. The first day we saw him he hopped up to my feet and took a bit of crumbled peanut I had placed on the toe of my shoe. From then on each day saw an unfolding of friendship with this lovely bird. In less than a week he was feeding from our hands. His happy call sounded so much like the word "Cheer" that we gave him that name.
     "But, Hi-Bub," I said, always hoping to develop in our young friend that accuracy of thought and statement so vital to good nature study, "Cheer has been gone a long time. Remember, I told you he flew away with a flock of his own kind? He has gone a long distance by now. I feel sure you didn't see him."
     "Why, Tham Cammel." There was a bit of reprimand in the lad's voice. "I thaw 'im. He wuth right here. You thcared 'im."

     "Frightened."
     "Yeth."
     I saw I couldn't argue him out of it. He believed he had seen Cheer. Perhaps it was one of the other blackbirds, I thought. Perhaps it was a shadow. At any rate it wasn't important, so I returned to the cabin to clean up the mess of papers, requesting Hi-Bub to let me know if he saw the famous redwing again.
     "I'll call if he come-th," he said.
     "Well—not the way you did before," I cautioned. "Just whisper this time."
     "Tho I don't thcare 'im."
     "Frighten."
     "Yeth."
     I returned in search of my spring fever. It wasn't hard to find. The sun streamed through trees largely shorn of their leaves. The breeze bore a sweet savor born of balsam and basswood trees. I fingered the papers, hoping to get down to work, but just about as aimlessly as before, when suddenly I heard a call that is difficult to describe. If a punctured automobile tire were able to attempt my name with its last escaping breath, the sound would be somewhat similar.
     "Tham Cammel!" came the exaggerated whisper from outside the front door. "Tham Cammel!"
     The call was meant for me, but it affected the entire community. Giny heard it and came in from her cookie baking. Birds, chipmunks and squirrels heard it too, and once more departed for distant points. I went to the door

to find Hi-Bub coughing from his efforts at a super­whisper.
     "I thcared 'im," he said, and cleared his throat. "He wuth here and I thcared 'im."
     I evaded grammatical comment.
     "Are you sure you saw a red-winged blackbird?" I asked.
     "Or was it just a 'maginary?" put in Giny, offering Hi-Bub a way out.
     "It wuth Cheer!" he said emphatically. "He wuth here." He indicated the same balsam as before. Hi-Bub seemed a bit hurt at our doubts. It was not wise to question him further.
     "Well, I'll tell you what to do," I said. "If he comes again, don't call or whisper—sing. Keep your voice low and even, and we will hear you. If Cheer is here, we've given him a bad reception."
     All right, agreed Hi-Bub, he would sing. And it wasn't long before he did. His unending talk to the various creatures who now came back took on the character of a chant. One moment I heard him trying to settle differences among his customers; the next there was a drone that bore some similarity to "America the Beautiful."
     "Oh, Tham Cammel, he'th here—Tham Cammel, he'th here-he'th in thith little tree. Tham Cammel, he'th here—Tham Cammel, he'th here—he'th comin' up to my hand. Hello, Cheer, hello, Cheer—now don't be thcared—oh, I mean frightened...."
     Giny and I had tiptoed to the door. There on the

ground, at the finger tips of Hi-Bub's proffered hand stood the beautiful bird that had given us so much joy in weeks past. He was taking bits of grain and peanuts. Even as we watched, breathless in our joy, the creature puffed up in blackbird style and uttered his happy "Cheer, Cheer."

     Restraining our impulse to rush to him, we advanced slowly from the door, talking to him in the calmest voices we could muster. His confidence was restored by this more quiet reception, and the bird gave evidence of his own joy at the reunion. He flew to a branch in a white pine, a perch that had been his favorite during the summer. Here he went through his routine of cute little

movements that definitely resembled a dance. He strutted back and forth, bending his beak close to his feet as if watching each step. Then he spread his wings, to reveal fully the beauty of his brilliant coloring. He called his squeaky "Cheer, Cheer," and added to it the mating song often described as "Congare-e-e-e-e-e."
     I do not want to draw comparisons between the many wild creatures that have given us their friendship at our northwoods Sanctuary. Each one has his peculiar charm and appeal. There was Inky the porcupine, so homely and awkward, yet so full of devotion and loyalty to us that his name became a symbol of friendship. There were the two porcupines we named Salt and Pepper, and surely their friendship left us forever in their debt. Halitosis, our friendly skunk, gave us a companionship of sweeter savor than the reputation of his kind would suggest. The bears, raccoons, woodchucks, deer and other creatures that responded to our kindness all carved a special place in our hearts. Cheer was but one more in the long list. He made his own niche in our affections. He was what his name suggested—a messenger of the sheer joy of life.
     "Why do you suppose he has come back?" Giny was asking. "There are no others of his kind left, and winter is almost here. What would make him return at this late day?"
     "Why, Mithuth Cammel, don't you know?" asked Hi-Bub in surprise.
     "Well—I'm not sure."
     Hi-Bub swallowed hard, and then looked up, giving in

his answer the cause of all things good and worth while in life. "Why," he said, his eyes widening, "why—he love-th you!"

     The next morning Cheer was at our bedroom window in the first gray light of dawn. He called Hi-Bub, too, out in the small cabin which had been assigned to our boy guest as his very own. There was no more time for spring fever, even though the warm autumn weather persisted—not with that little feathered bundle of good cheer around. We composed a poem to Cheer that day, which ran as follows:

Fly above your troubles, 
They are only bubbles.
Cheer, cheer, cheer.

There's a strength to gladness
That will conquer sadness.
Cheer, cheer, cheer.

Let your heart keep singing, 
Let your faith keep winging,
Into life keep bringing 
Cheer, cheer, cheer.

IT WAS Saturday morning and I had no need of consulting a calendar to convince me of this fact. Life in the forest has made me somewhat careless with the names of days. When I have dwelt for a period in the realm of plants, animals, landscapes and nature, I get the Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays and such things rather badly mixed.
     But Saturday had its unmistakable marks of distinction at the Sanctuary that autumn. Dawn had advanced but little when out in the misty distance across our lake we heard the squeak of an oarlock. We knew the sound very well for we had heard it often before—on Saturdays. Hi­Bub was coming! At the end of the road a boat had been left for his convenience, for our cabin is on an island. His patient, devoted father rose early to bring his little budding naturalist to us for this all-important, regular week-end visit.
     "Hello-o-o-o-o, Tham Cammel!" called the expected boyish voice across the still waters.
     "Hello-o-o-o-o, Hi-Bub," Giny and I called back in unison as we went to meet the boat.

     "Thith ith Thaturday, do you know ut?" he called, his voice breaking under the difficulty of lisping and shouting at the same time.
     "What, Hi-Bub—what did you say?" I asked, just wanting to hear him lisp again.
     "Thith ith Thaturday—Thaturday! Here I come!"
He sounded as if he wouldn't even wait for the boat.
     "Come on, Hi-Bub," called Giny. "We're waiting for you and we have lots to do. Hurry! Hurry!"
     "Daddy," we heard him say in lower voice, "can't you go fathter?"
     "Take it easy, son," came the deep voice of the father. "That island won't get away from you. Careful—don't fall overboard."
     The oars dipped and dipped, and the oarlock squeaked until finally they reached our shore.
     "Thought he would never get through this week," commented the daddy as he guided the boat to the landing. "It seems that there's some bird out here by the name of Cheer who will never get anything to eat or drink unless a certain boy gives it to him."
     "Ith he here, Tham Cammel?" broke in Hi-Bub, stumbling, crawling and scrambling his way ashore. "Ith he here? Ith Cheer here? Ith…"
     "Yes, yes, Hi-Bub—he is here," laughed Giny. "He's been at the feeding station every day, and I’m sure he has been looking for you."
     "Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy!" exclaimed the excited youngster. "Lookut! Lookut what I got." He held up a well­

filled paper bag. "It-th cooky crumbth for Cheer. Mom thaid I could bring 'em."
     "Yes," commented his daddy, with a wink and a smile. "Mom said he could bring the crumbs from the cookie jar. I never knew cookies had so many crumbs. I think maybe some very sound cookies were crushed up into crumbs just so that bag would be full."
     "Such things happen when boy meets bird," I agreed, studying the beaming Hi-Bub accusingly. "But how about some breakfast?"
     "Thanks—but we ate while it was still dark." The father handed a little overnight bag to us. "Now that I have the all-important job done I must go to my work. Good-by, you little rascal," he added to Hi-Bub, and brought his huge fist menacingly against the boy's chin. "Remember what your mother told you. I'll pick you up tomorrow afternoon and take you home."
     "Until another Thaturday—huh?" put in Hi-Bub, working far ahead.
     "O.K.—unless the Campbells get tired of you. Now good-by and have fun."
     "Oh, Tham Cammel duthn't get tired," insisted Hi-Bub quickly. "You thee, he can retht all week after I'm gone."
     "I expect it takes just that," said the daddy, though Hi-Bub missed the significance of the remark.

     The animals of our Sanctuary soon knew it was Saturday too. News does get around among these forest folk.

Cheer came up in his merriest mood. The cookie crumbs went over in a big way. We heard Hi-Bub's soft laugh mingled with the joyous twittering and calling of the redwing. Chipmunks, squirrels and birds of many varieties gathered about the happy lad until he was the center of what resembled a three-ringed circus concentrated into one.
     To Hi-Bub these creatures were people. He talked to them just as he did to us, fully believing that he was understood. Confidentially he told Stubby the chipmunk of little problems in school. Cheer was informed that "Daddy got me a new pair of shoeth." Apparently he received answers beyond the reach of my ears. "Where wuth you, Cheer, when you wuth gone tho long?" I heard him ask as the redwing ate crumbs from his hand. "Oh, wuth you?" he added after receiving some silent reply. "Did you have fun?" Obviously Cheer had fun wherever he went and whatever he did, for Hi-Bub closed this conversation with "Well, well—that-th nith. I'm glad."
     We knew Hi-Bub first in a large city many miles away. When we met him there at a school, he was already familiar with many of our friendly animals through the stories his parents had read to him from my books.
     "Hard to believe that is the same tyke we saw living back among those tall buildings and hard-paved streets," Giny said as we watched him through the window. "He takes to the woods as naturally as the animals themselves."
     Later in the day I managed to listen in on a conversation between Hi-Bub and. Still-Mo the red squirrel. Outside the cabin an unaccustomed silence reigned, and I

went searching for the cause of it. I discovered Hi-Bub sitting on the ground, looking up at Still-Mo who was perched on a stump. Probably the squirrel was quite fatigued from the hectic Saturday activities and needed a bit of rest. Hi-Bub was talking and I didn't count it eavesdropping to stand within hearing distance.

     "I wuth thcolded yethterday, Th-till-Mo," said the little lad meditatively.
     Still-Mo stared straight ahead.
     "I wuth bad, I gueth," went on the boy. "But I didn't mean to be."
     The squirrel remained silent.

     "You thee, I wuth helpin' Mother," Hi-Bub explained with extreme seriousness. "I wuth helpin' to bring Daddy thome pumpkin pie at dinner. I like pumpkin pie. Do you like pumpkin pie, Th-till-Mo?" There was a moment's pause, and then the boy added, "Uh-huh, I thought you did. Well, Mother cut the pie in the kitchen," he went on, moving a bit closer to his diminutive audience. Then in utmost confidence of the animal's interest and understanding, Hi-Bub told the stoical Still-Mo how there had been three pieces of pie on as many plates. His job was to transport this dessert into the dining room. Parental instructions were that he should take one plate at a time, as that was enough for a boy his size to handle properly. Hi­Bub was seized with the idea of efficiency. Hence he came prancing through the dining-room door with a portion of pie in each hand.
     His daddy looked up horrified, though Still-Mo was told that "Daddy wuth thcared." "Look out, son," the father had exclaimed. "In your left hand—that piece is slipping off the plate!" Hi-Bub looked. Sure enough the plate in the left hand was sloping and the pie creeping toward calamity. Hastily he leveled the plate, but he only transferred the spot of disaster. The plate in his right hand now dipped to a dangerous angle. The piece of pie it contained, obedient to the law of gravity and unmindful of the cries of mother and father, slid off the plate and landed upside down on the floor to the tune of an impressive plop.
     "An' what do you think, Th-till-Mo?" the boy continued, while the squirrel scratched violently at some un­

explained itch. "When I looked to see what had happened, the other pieth of pie went plop on the floor too."
     Hi-Bub looked rather sadly at the ground, recalling details of the disaster, while Still-Mo eyed a chipmunk that passed near by, likely wishing such things had never been created.
     "It wuth an awful meth, Th-till-Mo," Hi-Bub went on. "I wuth thcolded becauth I didn't mind."
     Still-Mo had been quiet long enough, however. Uttering a little chirp, she now ran away on some errand of her own. Perhaps she left for the same purpose I did—so I could find a secluded spot in which to indulge the laugh I didn't want Hi-Bub to hear.
 

     Our lad was ready for bed early this Saturday evening. It had been a wonderful day, and he had squeezed from it every drop of experience possible. Now he was tired. Giny and I took him to his cabin and tucked him in. The forest night, filled with mystery and miracle, reigned. For a few minutes there was a great tug of war going on in Hi-Bub's thoughts. Sleep was calling him. Yet there were other voices too. We heard our raccoons, Rack, Ruin and Racket, come to get the food we had placed outside for them. We had to lift Hi-Bub from his bed and hold him up to look through a window at these lovely nocturnal creatures, centered in a spotlight. Then there was another sound that banished the idea of sleep temporarily, and caused the 'coons to lift their heads in alertness. From deep in the forest came the high-pitched cries of coyotes.

"O-o-o-o-o," said Hi-Bub. He was a little apprehensive in spite of himself.
     "Remember what we have told you, Hi-Bub," said Giny as we took him back to his bed. "There is nothing in all the woods that will hurt you."
     "Yeth, I know," agreed the boy. "I wuth wonderin' if they like cookie crumbth."
     "Listen!" I cautioned. "There's another voice. Do you recognize it?"
     We all identified the deep mournful cry of a great timber wolf. It gladdened our hearts to hear it. These creatures, so little understood by mankind, have been disappearing from the north country. Rarely now is their weird call heard, though it is needed to complete the symphony of the wilderness.
     "He thingth nith," said Hi-Bub. "Could we thee him thometime?"
     It wasn't likely that we would. Through the autumn we had been thrilled by his occasional call, always coming from the same point out in the night. But to see such a creature is an adventure not to be anticipated, for he is the shyest of the shy.
     We had named our unseen friend "Mephistopheles" because of his enticing bass voice. Poor Hi-Bub once started into that word and nearly choked before he got out at the other end. Hence we shortened it to "Meph"—and even that is tough enough for a fellow who lisps.
     There was silence now, and Giny and I looked down at Hi-Bub as his eyes tried to close.

     "Tham Cammel," he said from somewhere on the border of dreamland.
     "Yes, Hi-Bub?"
     "Ith Cheer going to fly away thoon?"
     "Why, yes, old top—I expect Cheer will fly south any time now," I replied. "He couldn't live here in the winter, you know. He will fly to join his brothers and sisters. You see, he just stayed to play with you. All the other blackbirds left long ago. Isn't he nice to stay?"
     Yes, Cheer was nice to do that. There were more questions, however, coming from a mind that obviously had been dwelling on the subject.
     "Will Th-tubby and Beggar Boy go away?"
     "No, they do not go away. They will go down in those holes in the ground you have seen them enter. There they've stored the peanuts you gave them, along with seeds, acorns, grain and such things for winter food. They will sleep till spring, just the way woodchucks do."
     "Will Racket go 'way?" he persisted.
     "No, the pretty raccoon will live back in the woods somewhere in a hollow tree. She sleeps most of the winter, but awakens occasionally to eat."
     "Will Th-till-Mo go 'way?"
     "No, Still-Mo will stay right here. She will eat the food you have given her, and she doesn't sleep like the raccoon."
     Hi-Bub was very quiet. His big eyes avoided mine and looked at the ceiling of the cabin. Something was making him serious to the point of being heavy.

     "Tham Cammel," he said again.
     "Yes, Hi-Bub."
     "Are you and Mithuth Cammel going 'way?"
     There was the catch, and I had felt it. We had all been avoiding this subject. Now it was coming out. I squeezed Hi-Bub's hands in mine. "Yes, my little man, my fine naturalist—we are going away. In a short time we will pack up and leave. We must be gone all winter. You..."
     I hesitated. His lower lip was trembling.
     "Why, Hi-Bub, you aren't going to feel that way, are you? Giny and I have to go."
     "Why?" He had no breath to say more.
     "Because we must give lectures to lots of audiences. We want to show them pictures of our animals and tell them how beautiful it is here. You want us to do that, don't you?"
     Hi-Bub wasn't so sure, and he said so with silence.
     "You remember, don't you, Hi-Bub, when we came to your school in the big city?" I went on. "You remember how happy it made you to see the pictures. Don't you think we should try to make others happy that way too?"
     There was a slight nod of the head accompanied by a sniff, while one tear got away and crept down his cheek. It is hard to know what to do or say at a time like that, especially when there were tears of my own so close to the surface that if I said the wrong thing I would release them.
     "Hi-Bub," I said, after a trying interval.
     "Yeth, Tham Cammel."
     "What do you suppose our red-winged blackbird will

say when he starts away on his long journey? He doesn't want to go either. He has stayed a long time to prove that. But he will go someday, and what do you think he will say?"
     There was a moment's hesitation while several sniffs adjusted some feelings and a plump little hand rubbed away overanxious tears. Finally his heroic attempt at a smile succeeded, and he said strongly, "Cheer! Cheer! Cheer!"

Hi-Bub's sadness at our impending departure was sharply interrupted the next week. Some new business came to hand that left him no time to dwell on prospective loneliness. In fact, the entire community was suddenly stimulated with new life.
     We were made a present of a live, snorting, five-hundred-pound black bear!
     Bears are not novel in our forest. We have lots of them, and not infrequently we catch glimpses of one along our lake shore or on the trails. We have no complaint against them. In fact, the forest would lose something very precious if they were gone. They do not attack human beings. Normally they mind their own business and are so shy we count it a great experience when we see one.
     The trouble with our gift bear was—he wasn't normal. He had been around human beings so much he had lost all fear of them. We heard of him first through a letter from a game farm where he had been raised. Old Charley, as they had named the bear, had been brought there when he was a cub. There he grew up, fed and cared for by human hands. He was a good bear, the letter said, though it was admitted that he had a "fiendish sense of humor." He liked nothing better than to frighten a new employee

of the farm until he nearly jumped out of his shoes. While a keeper was washing out his cage, Old Charley bit the rubber hose in two and water squirted all over the man. Once he took the keeper's hat and sat on it, and refused to give it up until hours later. He enjoyed stealing his keeper's broom. In spite of his great size he wanted to play whenever anyone came near him. Seldom did anyone go into his cage without getting knocked down at least twice before leaving. Yet Old Charley was not cross. After each one of these stunts he would go over into a corner, and sit making a noise something like an outboard motor—which probably came from laughter down inside.
     The problem was that Old Charley had outgrown his accommodations at the game farm. It was high time he was liberated in the forest. They asked permission to place him in the Sanctuary, where he would be safe from hunters. There the old bear could get accustomed to a wilder existence. In a few weeks he would enter hibernation. By spring, the letter stated, he would have forgotten his domestic training and would be a normal bear.
     Well, Old Charley arrived one October day. He was transported in a truck on which had been built a strong cage. He was taken back over a little fire lane that winds through the woods toward the more remote area of our Sanctuary.
     Giny, Hi-Bub and I went along to see the bear released. There was no question as to the joy of the great creature as the door of his cage was opened, and he jumped down on the forest floor. There was a noticeable

sparkle in his eyes as he stood for a moment contemplating his surroundings. Here was the world as he remembered it in his earlier days. He sensed that he was at liberty. The trees fascinated him. He raced up to a large white pine and embraced it as if it were a long-lost friend. Then, snorting and puffing delightedly, he ran from one tree to another giving each the same affectionate greeting.
     He seemed inclined to share his hugs with us when he discovered us in a little huddle a short distance away. He ran in our direction, but when he arrived at the spot we weren't there any more! I never saw people run faster. Hi-Bub's legs were simply a blur at the speed he went, though he was laughing and having the best of fun. "Come on, Tham Cammel," he called. I needed no urging. Neither did Giny, nor the men who had driven the truck from the game farm. Yet Old Charley didn't mean any harm. He hadn't the slightest intention of hurting anyone. He was happy and he wanted to play. But it is very difficult for a bear his size, with two-inch claws, to be gentle. We had no wish to have him wrap his arms about us and lick our faces, even if it were only an expression of love. We raced to the truck and soon were packed like sardines in the all-too-small cab.
     Old Charley paid no more attention to us. He had had his fun. If we were sissies and didn't want to play, he still had plenty to amuse him. He boxed with bushes, rolled in tall grass, snorted and sniffed at everything, and finally disappeared on the run over a little hilltop.
     "Oh boy, oh boy—that wuth the mothteth fun I ever had," declared the delighted Hi-Bub.

     We went back to our cabin on the island. An adventure had begun. Nothing like Old Charley had ever been known in that country before. He took to the wilds handily, but he never forgot what he had learned about men. We tried to keep him near the point where he had been liberated. There we established a feeding station for him, and kept a good supply of his favorite foods at hand. For several days he held to the region. We hid behind trees and watched him as he came up for his dinner.
     Old Charley soon began pushing his horizons back. This was too interesting a world for him to be contented with one small part of it. Within a week he disappeared and was gone for two days.
     Then a story reached us of a huge bear that had been seen several miles to the south of us along a forest road. In fact, one man driving an automobile had got a very good look at him. Seeing the fine-looking bear in the brush at the side of the road, the man had stopped his car. The bear promptly came right up to him "wearing a smirk on his face and puffing like an outboard motor," the man said. The windows of the car were hurriedly closed and the driver sat there watching the fearless animal. To his amazement the bear tried to get in the car. He pawed at the doors and windows, he climbed up on the hood, and then got up on top. Naturally those great bear claws left numerous autographs in the paint. Once on the roof the bear seemed contented and sat down. The driver was virtually a prisoner in his own car, and not a very contented one either. The man didn't know what to do. He could hear the bear as he moved about scratching himself.

Finally the great creature stretched out as if he intended to take a nap. Of course, the driver could have started up the car and run out from under the bear, but he had no wish to hurt the animal. Anyway, he had no assurance that as the bear fell off he wouldn't take half of the car with him. Presently he remembered some apples that were in the rear seat. He lowered a window slightly and dropped several of these on the ground. The bear promptly scrambled down, leaving more deep scratches in the paint and a dent in the hood as he went. The creature picked up an apple and began to down it in huge bites, while the driver scraped about an inch of rubber off his rear tires making a fast start down the highway.
     "That must have been Old Charley," said Giny when the story was told us.

     Hi-Bub giggled.
     Old Charley showed up at his feeding station again and remained for several days. Then he disappeared. Soon another story reached us. This time it involved a cabin five miles to the north. The owners of the place had gone to town for supplies. A few rings of summer sausage had been left hanging on the back porch. When they returned the sausage was gone—and so was most of the porch. It was evident from large tracks in the sand that a bear had been there. Apparently he had caught the odor of that summer sausage. The scent of seasoned meat is just a cordial invitation to a bear to come on in and help himself. This bruin visitor had done just that. Getting into the porch was simple enough, for the screen door swung inward and no doubt gave way easily to his powerful paws. Getting the sausage was easy too, and from the grease spots on the floor it was clear that he had eaten the lunch right there. Then came the problem of getting out. The door had slammed behind him. It needed to be pulled open, and a bear knows nothing about pulling—only pushing. This creature must have pushed amazingly hard, for the door had gone outward whether the hinges were built that way or not and with it went the entire frame and a section of the railing.
     "It wuth Old Charley!" guessed Hi-Bub when this tale was told us.
     Five miles southeast of us lived some people who had carved a little garden space out of the forest. Here they raised vegetables and some choice flowers. The only way they could protect their produce was to circle the plot

of ground with an electric fence. This worked fairly well through the summer. Now that the autumn season was on, they were keeping the fence in operation until they could retrieve some very precious bulbs that were still in the ground. One evening they were startled to see a good-sized bear standing near the fence. They tapped on the window at him, but he showed not the least alarm and went about sniffing and investigating. They held their breath as the animal edged toward the electric fence. Their hearts all but stopped as he turned his nose away and began backing up toward the thing. Presently his short tail made the contact, and one hundred and twenty volts went racing all around under his black hide. Of all the indignities to heap on the king of the forest! The animal seemed paralyzed at first. Then he gave a snort and a leap that broke the contact. As if super-charged, he raced into the woods, breaking down bushes and small saplings as he went.
     The people were doubled up with laughter, but their merriment suddenly ceased when they saw the bear coming back out of the forest. He wasn't running now, but was advancing with strides that reflected purpose and power. Straight to the fence he went. He sniffed at it with his nose. Again one hundred and twenty volts smote him, and he jumped back. Then with an angry growl he arose on his hind legs, front paws waving. The people looked at a spectacle of ferocity that made them vow they never would get in a boxing match with a bear. The animal struck the wire with his paw, and of course, was shocked anew. It infuriated him, and he lunged forward,

breaking the fence and the electrical circuit. Free now of the mysterious power that had assailed him, the bear proceeded to tear that fence down, breaking the posts, not stopping until it was a tangled mass spread over the ground. Then extricating himself from the coils of wire, he raced into the woods.
     Giny and I nodded our heads as we heard this story. "That's Charley," we said in unison.
     There came the tale of the resort where the kitchen was surrounded with a screened porch. After the insect season was over, the door of this porch had been removed to make the carrying in of wood and supplies easier. A bear began to visit the place nightly and feast on scraps that were usually left in a bucket on the porch. The creature tried repeatedly to get into an icebox that stood near at hand. The cook grew afraid to go out on the porch, and something had to be done. One of the guests suggested that a big noise might frighten the animal away. Accordingly plans were made, and when the bear returned one night, all of a sudden there was the wildest pounding of dishpans and shouting! It worked perfectly. The bear was frightened until he nearly jumped out of his hide. The only trouble was that in his fear he lost memory of where the door was, and went right out through the side of the porch, taking nearly all of it with him.
     That was Charley!
     One day some men were doing road work a few miles to the east of the Sanctuary. They had driven to the point where the work was needed, and there at the roadside

parked their car. Their metal lunch boxes were left on the car seat—four of them. Road work is hard. The men shoveled and picked and chopped all through the morning hours. By noon they were ravenously hungry. Back to the car they trudged. "Man, am I anxious for that lunch today!" said one of them. "My wife baked an apple pie and I know she packed two pieces for me."
     "There'll be mince pie for me," said another, "and that's my favorite."
     "You can have your pie," said a third. "I'll take good old banana cake—there'll be some in my box today."

     Then all four stopped talking and walking and just stared at the sight before them. Beside their automobile sat a huge bear having the time of his life. He had opened the car door and found the lunch boxes. A few scratches from his powerful paws had opened these and the tasty contents were spilled on the ground. In the midst of this picnic the bear was perched, making a noise like an outboard motor as he ate apple pie, mince pie, banana cake and sandwiches until his heart was content and his tummy too.
     The men shouted, but the bear was not afraid. He had heard men shout before. They threw stones, but not very hard, for the car windows were close at hand. Helplessly the men had to stand there until their uninvited guest ate the last crumb of their lunches. Then with a snort or two of thanks, the great creature disappeared in the woods.
     That was Charley!
     A man and his wife came up for a quiet week end, the last of the season at their cabin in the pines by a neighboring lake. The first night was wonderful, all that they had expected it to be. But in the morning when they looked out the back door, there sat a big bear on the doorstep. He was looking in through the screen, and eying the icebox particularly. They shouted at him and stamped their feet, but he wouldn't move. They called him "pretty creature" and heaped compliments on him, but he was immune to flattery. There he sat, in perfect contentment, considering ways to get to that icebox.
     At last the man of the house tossed an orange out a window. It interested the bear, and he ate it down skin and

all. But he didn't go away. He returned to the back step and sat down. Another orange was tossed out. The bear ate it, and then sat down on the back step. Seven oranges were consumed this way, with the same result. Several apples followed, then three loaves of bread and a dozen sweet rolls. After eating all this, the animal apparently figured there couldn't be anything left in the icebox, and calmly walked away into the woods.
     That was Charley!
     Old Charley certainly got around. And wherever he went he managed to get into trouble. There was danger mixed in his adventures, though he seemed to lead a charmed life. People who live in the woods won't let a bear boss them around all the time. Upon several occasions rifles were leveled at him, and bullets fired that were meant to bring his career to a close. Some way he escaped them all, and lived on to get into more mischief.
     Old Charley soon grew into an impish tradition. Like the gremlins of the air forces he was the traditional source of all trouble. When two of Giny's pies were forgotten in the oven and burned to a crisp, it was Old Charley who did it. When I was carrying an armload of wood in a rainstorm and slipped and landed in a puddle—it was Old Charley who tripped me. When Hi-Bub tipped over a bottle of ink on his mother's tablecloth he said, "I gueth it wuth Old Charley."
     The community took up the tradition. The big black bear became a prankish evil spirit who practiced sorcery. His fiendish sense of humor feasted on trouble. One evening while driving I came to a truck that had slipped into

the ditch. Men were laboring to get it back on the road. "How did it happen?" I asked.
     "Oh, just Old Charley," said one resignedly.
     It was Old Charley who washed out the bridge over Pine River, planted mice in a neighbor's garret, broke a mooring line and set a launch adrift in an open lake, set off a forest fire, and even caused our autumn storms. All of which proves that a fellow had better be right careful about getting a bad reputation in this world, for folks are just looking for someone to blame for all their troubles.
     The last time we saw Charley that autumn he was again near the place where he had been liberated. Giny, Hi-Bub and I found him at the foot of a little hill, much interested in the giant roots of a pine tree that had been overturned by the wind. Charley was raking leaves into the excavation made where the roots were pulled out of the soil. He had gathered cedar bark into this spot too. While he was not beginning his hibernation, he was preparing for it. We saw him roll about in the material he had collected, and then as if practicing his entry into his vast dreamland, he reached with his front paws and pulled leaves and bark over himself until he was buried. Then he arose, shook the dirt from his fur and went into the woods.
     "That's Charley, all right," I whispered. "I wish for the good of the community he would go to sleep and that right away."
     "He'th a thwell bear," whispered Hi-Bub.

As the autumn advanced and the day of our departure neared, Giny and I discovered that Hi-Bub was not the only one whose thought was saddened at our leaving. For the first time in our experience we simply did not want to go. Our philosophy in the matter helped but little. We spoke of the joy we would have in meeting thousands of people and sharing with them the experiences and inspiration we had gathered in Nature. We knew the need people have for the wholesome influence of the forest, and that carrying our lectures to them was likely our best way of serving our fellow beings. Yet, when we finished all our arguments—we didn't want to go.
     I strongly suspect that our state of mind was largely due to that youngster who visited us so regularly and faithfully. True, there were other factors. The unseasonable warmth continued. It was so much like springtime we felt we should be arriving instead of departing. The wilderness about us was teeming with interest and the promise of adventures. Old Charley the bear was an inexhaustible source of excitement. A host of memories and plans caught and tugged at us like the thorns of a blackberry thicket.
     Still we might have dismissed all these things easily if

it hadn't been for leaving Hi-Bub. That smile of his, the sweet but strong character that looked out of his blue eyes, his infectious enthusiasm, his faith, his charming lisp—how were we to get along without them?
     Here is where childhood is more resourceful than maturity. We grownups are handicapped by practical knowledge and a vague thing we call reality. Hi-Bub was free of such manacles. If he was to lose temporarily his friends of the forest, he knew just where and how to get another. This we learned on his last weekend visit before our departure.
     It was a haunting autumn evening in which we sat before our final campfire. The air was just cool enough that the warmth of the flames was welcome. An unbelievably yellow moon slowly and silently ascended the heavens. Stars blinked their eyes in its strong light. Crickets droned their ancient melody. The lake looked like polished black marble, and the heavens lived again in its mirrored depths. Coyotes gave their weird cries to deepen the beauty and mystery of the night. Twice we heard the voice of Meph, the great timber wolf.
     "Tham Cammel," said Hi-Bub, breaking a long period of silence.
     "Yes."
     "Did Indianth live in theth woodth?"
     "Yes, Hi-Bub, Indians lived all through this country."
     "Were they right here—right where we are now?"
     "I feel sure they were. They traveled through these lakes in their birch-bark canoes, and no doubt sometimes they landed on this island."

     "Well—" Hi-Bub was moved with a growing excitement "well, do you thuppoth an Indian ever walked right here?" And he marched past the fire in strides that were overlong for such short legs.
     "No doubt," I said, willing to agree to anything within the realm of possibility. "No doubt some great brave has walked right where you are walking now."
     "Do you thuppoth he touched thith tree—here?" asked the boy, putting his hand against an ancient white pine which was now lighted by the glow of the fire.
     "Well, Hi-Bub, that tree is probably one hundred and fifty years old and so it was here when Indians roamed this region. However, I think the exact spot a big brave would have touched is higher than you can reach."
     "Oh-h-h-h!" exclaimed the boy, imagination aflame. "I thuppoth thith tree hath grown. Maybe the thpot he touched is way up there." He pointed to a place thirty feet from the ground.
     Giny and I laughed. "No, Hi-Bub," I said, seeing a chance to teach him a nature fact. "A given point on a tree never grows higher. Trees put on new growth at the top, and they become larger around, but their sides do not creep upward. If you were to drive a nail in this tree, say four feet from the ground, twenty years from now that nail would still be at the same height. So if a great Indian brave landing here a hundred years ago touched this tree about here—" I indicated a spot on the bark about six feet up—"that same spot is there now."
     With this explanation, nothing would do but that I must

lift Hi-Bub until he could place his hand on the spot our hypothetical Indian might have touched. Now the delighted youngster had walked where an Indian might have walked; he had stood where an Indian might have stood; and touched a tree where one day an Indian might have placed his hand. It was wonderful.
     "Tham Cammell" he said, his tones influenced by his enthusiasm. "Talk thome more—'bout Indianth."
     "Well," I said as I carried him back to a seat between Giny and me, "I don't know very much about them, but I'll be glad to tell what I know. In this region lived Indians who were known as the Ojibwa. They were wise and clever people. They knew what plants in the woods to use as food. They raised maize, or Indian corn. North of here in a very large lake is an island on which they planted crops. When the first white men came to the region, they found the Indians farming that island. The Ojibwa were good hunters and fishermen, too. Can't you imagine even now their birch-bark canoes going along in the shadows near that distant shore?"
     I never should have started that. Could he imagine that? He was way ahead of me. He had canoes so thick they were bumping into one another—"hunnerdth of 'em." The Indians were camped on those moonlit shores, they were gathering wild rice in the bays, they were singing, dancing, laughing about their campfire. "Don't you thuppoth there might be—just thum?" he insisted.
     "No, Hi-Bub," I said laughing, "none of them is here now. It's fun though to know they were here, isn't it?"

     Hi-Bub wasn't hearing me. His eyes were wide and lighted with excitement. "Did they have little boyth and girlth?" he asked, anxiously.
     "Yes, surely they did."
     "Did the boyth and girlth live right in theth very woodth?" he persisted.
     "Yes, they played and learned Indian knowledge right in these very woods," I affirmed.
     "M-m-m-m-m," went Hi-Bub, though I did not understand what was going on in his thought until later.
     "Perhaps you would like to know about the grand old Indian chief who lives up here right now," I went on, while Hi-Bub looked up at me with both mouth and eyes wide open. "Well, he lives way back in that forest in the direction of the rising moon."
     Then I related to the attentive youngster the story, as best I knew it, of an ancient and interesting character named John Shawano. Through the great forest to the east of us threads a road known as the Military Highway. This road follows rather accurately the very old Indian trail which connected Fort Howard (later Green Bay) on the shore of Lake Michigan with Ontonagon, Michigan, on Lake Superior. The last stands of big timber in the north country were along this roadway directly east of us. In the cathedral-like depths of that forest lived this strange character known to most people as just "Big John."
     Each of the few times I had seen Big John Shawano I had been much impressed with his dignified bearing and startling appearance. He was known to be at least one

hundred years old, possibly older. Yet he stood a full six feet four inches, straight as the pine trees among which he lived and just about as sturdy. His eyes were clear and steady. His bronze face showed no wrinkles, his hair was thick and dark. Few of the young woodsmen could keep pace with John on a hike through the woods. He thought nothing of swinging on his back a packsack bearing a hundred pounds of supplies and walking from town to his cabin twenty miles away.
     No one ever succeeded in getting really confidential with Big John, or in drawing from him his priceless story. He was a legitimate chieftain though his tribe was long since scattered and gone. Yet he never surrendered the dignity of his office. On the wall of his small cabin hung a heavy war club. It had been carved by primitive knives from specially selected maple. A hard knot made a large knob at one end. The other end had a curved handle. Two eagle feathers were attached to the handle, a symbol that only a true chief might use. This war club had been given Big John by his father. He regarded it with pride. No one might borrow it or buy it, though some tried to do so. Few were permitted to handle it. Once he surprised me by saying, even though I fancied he scarcely knew me, "When John go on—you have him (the club). You kind to little brothers of woods. Where John go he no need war club. You have him then."
     Big John believed wild animals were created for Indians. He hunted when he needed food. And yet he never harmed an animal needlessly and he wanted no one else to do so. He said, "Great Spirit give cow, pig, sheep to

white man. To Indian he give deer, porcupine, fish." Game wardens of the region had a problem with Big John, for he was convinced he had a divine right to hunt whenever he needed food regardless of the laws white men made.
     When I stood in the presence of Big John I always had the feeling that he came from another world. He lived in dreams, traditions, legends. His kingdom was by no means lost. In the sighing of the wind in the trees, the murmur of running streams, the rumble of thunder, the soft breaking of wavelets against a shore line, he heard the voices of his people. He said his tribe lived beyond the setting sun, and someday he would go to them.
     John Shawano was very proud of his ability as a woodsman. He could move about as silently as a shadow, as swiftly as a fox. Many a party of hunters or fishermen had been startled and not a little frightened to see suddenly standing before them this tall, powerful Indian. Usually he would say not a word, but after looking at them sternly for a moment would disappear into the forest.
     Big John had the spirit of the pre-white-man Indian. He kept aloof from some of the bad habits taken on by fellow red men. He held to the legends of his race, and fully believed that someday the Indians would take America back from the white men again. "Only," he said, "they be good to white man. They treat him well."
     Hi-Bub listened closely as I talked of Big John Shawano. It was past his bedtime and his eyes were heavy, but his interest held. Presently he went to Giny, climbed into

her lap and rested his head on her shoulder. I thought the day was done for the young man, but not so.
     "Tham Cammel," he said, his voice mellowed with sleepiness.
     "Yes, Hi-Bub."
     "Duth a little Indian hoy live in the woodth?"
     "Well, now . . ." I said hesitantly, not sure just what direction the conversation should take.
     "Yeth, he duth," said Hi-Bub, blinking.
     "He does?"
     "Yeth, I know him."
     I couldn't think what to say to that.
     "He ith coming to play with me," went on the sleepy but inspired Hi-Bub.
     "What is his name?" asked Giny, who is better at that sort of thing than I am.
     "Little John Deer Foot," said Hi-Bub without hesitation.
     "Big John and Little John—that sounds right," I put in.
     "Where is Little John Deer Foot?" asked Giny.
     It was apparent the conversation was about the equivalent of a bedtime story, for Hi-Bub was hovering along the border of dreamland. "He live-th in a beaverth houth," he said. His lisping was always more prominent when he was tired.
     "When will you see him?" asked Giny, her cheek against his.
     "Oh, he will come whenever I call him," said Hi-Bub, stirring himself for just a moment. "He will come to play
 
 

with me. He ith going to keep me from being lonethome while you are gone."
     There, I told you that childhood is more resourceful than adulthood. Our practical sense wouldn't let us have a 'maginary little boy to take along with us. But Hi-Bub could reach out beyond our dull senses and find a play­mate who would stay with him and be satisfying. Lucky, blessed little Hi-Bub.
     "And Little John Deer Foot will come to our Hi-Bub," Giny was crooning in his ear. "He will take you into the lodges of the beaver and into the woodchuck homes too. He will teach you to play on the otter's toboggan slide, and to ride on the wings of the eagle. Little John Deer Foot will teach you what the cricket is saying, the secret of sunset and dawn. He will join you in your dream, Hi­Bub, and no one can take him from you."
     Somewhere in the middle of these sentences Hi-Bub had launched out into dreams. From the peaceful expression on his chubby face, they must have been lovely ones.
     Giny and I—and Hi-Bub too, though he did not know it sat by the campfire until it burned to white ashes. We must feast to our fill, for it would be many a moon before we would know such a scene again.
     High overhead we heard the call of Canada geese in flight. Faintly we could see their V-shaped formation passing before the moon. They were heading south in response to a call in their hearts.
     "Tomorrow we follow them," whispered Giny, for there was a call in our hearts too. And now that Hi-Bub had Little John Deer Foot, we no longer disliked going.

CHEER had us awake the next morning at dawn. It was well he did, for there was much to be done that day. As if he had known that, he flew to our bedroom window, perched on a convenient tree and called to us in a manner that left no doubt of his motive. He wanted us to get up. He went to Hi-Bub's window, too, and soon had the boy wide awake and in conversation with him.
     What more pleasant manner of awakening could there be than to the musical notes of this blessed feathered alarm clock! His song and happy manners soon had us all laughing. Before we gave a thought to our own breakfast, we took his cherished peanut crumbs to him. He strutted about, hopped, talked and spread his gorgeous wings as he ate from our hands.
     How much do animals know? How keen is their intuition and their understanding of circumstances? I am always stymied by these questions. There is the fear in answering them that we give creatures credit for either too much or too little intelligence. But certain it is that there is a character very deep and profound in these living things with which we share the world, and we glimpse a bit of their true nature only when our attitude is kindly, patient and anxious to understand.

     Cheer was unusually persistent in his devotion that morning. In earlier days he would take a few bites of food from us, then as a rule fly away. Not on this autumn morning. He stayed right in our midst. If we walked away, he walked after us. He was reluctant to have us leave to eat our own breakfast, and perched in a tree near at hand where he could see us and sing to us. Food was left for him on the ground, but he did not want to be served that way. We must hold it for him. The companionship was as valuable as the crumbs themselves.
     Now why this stepped-up display of affection? Did this little feathered mite know that we were leaving the Sanctuary that day? And did he know at that hour that he was leaving too? For so it happened. Before the day was done Cheer had sailed toward the ever-receding southern horizon—and we had too.
     The north country sped its departing guests in a most effective way. We never let ourselves be deceived by a deviation from the usual pattern of that land. The north­woods is a rigorous place and it maintains its character. Our autumn had been disarmingly mild. Yet the disposition of the wilderness remained basically unchanged, and the region would not let us depart without convincing us of that fact.
     We had packed our car and finished final closing errands at the cabin. Various kinds of food appropriate for our island pets were left out. The three of us went once more to Old Charley's feeding station, there to leave food that would last the bear until hibernation. We did not see him, though his great tracks were numerous.

     During these operations Hi-Bub kept up a running conversation, one of those monotonous flows that one moment we wished would cease and the next we hoped would never end. He always lisped more when he was particularly excited. Now his characteristic was so persistent that Giny and I found ourselves lisping also!
     Our lad was too much occupied to feel any sense of loneliness. A certain versatile and fabulous Little John Deer Foot was becoming very real to him. Already the long name had been shortened to "John." We frequently caught fragments of conversation between the two—at least we heard Hi-Bub's remarks and I presume if we had been a bit more attentive and imaginative we would have heard John's end of it.
     “John—you keep pettin' Th-tubby while I go for more peanut-th," said Hi-Bub.
     John must have done so, for when Hi-Bub returned Stubby the chipmunk was there patiently waiting for him. "Thankth, John," said Hi-Bub casually. "Now you go an' thee if Cheer ith all right. I think I heard him cry."
     On inquiry I found that John had come back saying that Cheer was all right and would be over pretty soon. In a few minutes Cheer came, and you just can't argue against evidence like that!
     Little John Deer Foot seemed to have no limitations. On Hi-Bub's instructions he went down in the woodchuck tunnels to see if Patty and O. Bologna were covered up well so they would be warm for winter. He went out to see if Rack and Ruin the raccoons had a good tree to live in. It seems that the tree wasn't so good—therefore Little

John Deer Foot guided them to another. The tireless Indian boy inspected the chipmunk homes and told the tiny striped creatures they had better store up more food. Strangely, that is just what they did. He told the squirrels to hide some food in the trees so it wouldn't be covered by snow—that was done too.
     Hi-Bub was a relentless boss. He sent his invisible pal to pluck the last leaves off a birch tree. The leaves came floating down all right. He sent him back to say good-by to the coyotes and to old Meph, the wolf. Next he dispatched him to find Old Charley to tell the bear not to get into any more trouble but to go to bed early so he could wake up in the spring. I asked if Little John Deer Foot would please cover up our wood pile. I guess he was too

busy, for presently I saw that it hadn't been done and did it myself.
     Toward noon came our parting pat from the northwoods. For a few minutes all nature stood perfectly still. In the northwestern sky we discovered some ominous, dark, low clouds. They were moving toward us at a startling pace, though about us the world was still calm. Not a breath of wind stirred, not a leaf moved, not a wave wrinkled the lake. As we arrived at the island on our return from Old Charley's dining room, we could hear a roar in the distance. On faraway hills we could see trees bending and whipping about. The oncoming clouds were so low they seemed to brush the earth.
     Suddenly the wind struck. Trees about the cabin seemed actually to bend before the gale came, as if they were trying to dodge the blow. In an instant it was cold. All memory of the mild autumn and summer temperatures was gone. Our thermometer recorded a drop of twenty degrees within as many minutes.
     At the first touch of this wind we heard the call of Cheer. Rising gracefully and calling constantly, he disappeared over the treetops to the south. Some way we knew this was our last look at him, for this season at least. He took a portion of our hearts with him, and I am sure he left behind some of his. Skeptics may scoff at such things if they wish. They may say it was only the warm weather and the abundance of food that caused our red­wing to tarry with us. We stand our ground. There was something far more important to this adventure than a doubting thought can see. There are elements of creation

that only kindliness, faith and love reveal. What we saw in the friendship of Cheer was the gift of these qualities. As he flew away we felt so convinced that he was departing that we called our good-bys after him.
     "Little John will take care of you, Cheer," called Hi­Bub.
     Then we learned the source of the roar we had heard. A wall of hard sleet drove fiercely through the trees. We could not see the far shore of the lake through the curtain of white particles that pelted the earth. The ground was immediately covered. The transition was quick and complete. Winter was instantly at hand.
     The adventure was not in the least displeasing to us. Quite to the contrary, we loved it. This was the character of our beloved north country. It is a land that demands something of men, women and children. Sternness and severity are inseparable parts of its charm.
     We were out in the storm with upturned faces and outspread arms as if to embrace this spirit of the north. "Thith ith thwell, Tham Cammel, thith ith thwell!" cried Hi-Bub, eyes closed as he faced the wind, cheeks glowing red from the touch of cold and pelting of sleet.
     The temperature continued to drop, and the sleet changed to fitful spurts of snow. During a slight lull in the storm we crossed from the island to the mainland where our car awaited us. As we passed through the village we left Hi-Bub with his parents. A hurried and not too tearful good-by was said. Then we drove on to our winter's work. Fifty miles to the south we found cold

rain stead of snow. A hundred miles—and we had left the storm behind. One hundred and fifty miles of driving brought us to the first sizable city. The clank and clatter, the hurry and excitement of it was a shock to us. It was not easy to become adjusted to an atmosphere so different from that which we had just left. But it helped greatly to know that in the direction of the North Star, which we could see dimly in spite of street lights, the wilderness lived on. It was good to know that Hi-Bub was there—yes, and Little John Deer Foot too.

I AM deeply grateful that it has been my lot to meet many people in a way that is both general and personal. Whenever I think of the thousands of upturned faces I have looked on from the lecture platform, I want to borrow a much-used word from Hi-Bub's vocabulary and say: "These are thwell people, just thwell!"
     I am not blind to the evils and problems which seem to beset human experience. Yet the conviction is growing with me that our troubles are not such ponderous and difficult things as we have supposed. The enemies to our happiness are more in the nature of mistakes, errors, superstitions, fears—things that have no power or substance except that which we give them in ignorance.
     See how quickly our notion of nature is changed as the truth is learned. When we have seen but little of forest and jungle we fancy it is a constant battlefield. We conjure up tales of savagery and bestial ferocity. Yet as we become acquainted with the world of plant and animal we find there is a certain charm and peace to it, even in its severe aspects. We find too a capacity for friendship, devotion and loyalty.
     So it is with the human race. Those who love people little have seen little of them. What is right with our fel­

lows far outweighs what is wrong. I am sure we should hear more of this view. We know that we cannot scold and whip a child into being his best. We cannot abuse ourselves into improvement. Far better a recognition of what is good and commendable than a continuous reprimand for our mistakes.
     The storms of the ocean take place on a very thin surface. In the depths there reign calmness and peace. So with the troubles of human experience. The wars and other evils take place on the surface, in the thin scum of selfishness, fear, greed and misunderstanding. In the depth of our true being—in love and Godliness and kindliness—there resides an undisturbed harmony to which we may easily turn.
     One of our greatest illusions is that we are separate and different from one another. I have looked down on audiences in cities of the North, South, East and West. Among them have been every nationality and every creed. Yet, when they thought in the common language of nature, let their thoughts dwell in the realm of created and growing things, the same sweet and lovable expression has come to them all.
     Yes, people are "thwell!” Think of a created being who is mentally capable of brotherly love, honesty, service, goodness, loyalty, happiness. Such is man. Even if he hasn't used these qualities as much as he should, he is capable of them. Small wonder Scripture says of him that "he is fearfully and wonderfully made."
     Giny and I talked often along these lines as we went about on our lecture tour. Everywhere we saw the same

goodness we loved in Hi-Bub, in Cheer, in Stubby and the rest. In fact, sometimes we saw it revealed in ways and places that were complete surprises.
     One evening I sat on the platform of a large auditorium waiting to begin my lecture. Some late-comers entered at the back of the hall. As they walked down the aisle I saw much excitement among those near them, and heard delighted laughter. I looked toward them and rubbed my eyes, unable to believe what I saw. But there was no mistake about it. Down the aisle came a beautiful raccoon, tugging impatiently at the leash which held him. It was a gray raccoon that looked very much like Racket. The creature was being led by a smiling girl of high-school age, who obviously knew the effect this would have on me. The audience waited understandingly for many minutes while Giny and I fondled "Sambo," as he had been named in honor of me. His young mistress had saved him from dogs the previous summer, we learned, and had made a pet of him. "I thought Mrs. Campbell and you might be lonesome for some of your animals at the Sanctuary," she said, "so I brought Sambo over."
     Little did she know how much it meant to us to take that lovely creature in our arms. He was accustomed to good treatment by human hands, and he nestled close to us, running his front feet in characteristic manner over our eyes, nose and ears and into our hair. Sambo was one who enjoyed the lecture that night, or at least he enjoyed being at the lecture. He went sound asleep in the girl's arms, and I could hear him snoring softly during some of the most solemn parts of my oration.

     At a grammar school I was invited into the third-grade room where I was told a surprise awaited me. I went in to find that a pet crow had taken over the management of things, and thirty children had completely abandoned the pursuit of readin', writin' and 'rithmetic to watch this funny old bird tip over inkwells, steal chalk, pencils and pens, and perch on the head of the eight-year-old boy who owned him. As I walked up to him, Black Beauty, as he had been named, flew to my hand. There he sat talking in a strange tongue, apparently striving to tell me how he happened to be there and how silly it was for all these children to be cooped up in such a cage. Black Beauty was a dandy. He reached in my pocket, plucked out a gold pencil, and dropped it on the floor while the children screamed with delight. The teacher had long since abandoned any hope of order until something was done with Black Beauty. I found a piece of candy in my pocket and offered it to the crow. He wasn't hungry at the time, so he flew across the room carrying the candy in his beak and buried it in a flower pot bringing another merry outburst from the children.
     Back he came and perched on my shoulder. While he screamed in one ear trying to tell me his version of things, the teacher told me hers. It seemed that Gerald, the eight year-old who owned the crow, had recently moved in from the country. Black Beauty had been a pet at his country home a few miles away. While it nearly broke Gerald's heart, the crow was left behind, for certainly the city was no place to take such a creature. Gerald's family had been living in their new apartment home less than a week when

one morning at dawn they heard a sound at the window. There, peering in at them, was Black Beauty. How he found them is one of those mysteries which challenge human explanation. It was a miracle of instinct. However he did it, Black Beauty was with his family again and everyone was happy, particularly Gerald. That day they played together again. Gerald had a little bicycle, and he went dashing up and down the sidewalk with Black Beauty fluttering along trying desperately to ride on the boy's head.
     Troubles were not over, however. Schooltime came, and Gerald must take his place in the class. Black Beauty was kept confined the first morning of school and was not released until Gerald was in the school room. About an hour later the teacher of the third grade and all the students were startled by a great commotion at one of the windows. There was Black Beauty, who had performed another miracle of instinct and perseverance and located his young master again. The teacher asked the students to be quiet, and vainly hoped the bird would go away. But who can keep quiet when a crow is pecking at the window pane, fluttering and trying to force his way in, screaming raucously all the while? In desperation, the teacher opened the window and admitted the determined crow. Immediately the bird flew over and perched on Gerald's head, to the delight of all the children.
     No book "larnin'" was accomplished that day in the third grade, though surely something very valuable about kindness and faithfulness was learned from Gerald's pet. Black Beauty had the time of his life. He was

the center of attention and loved it. He went about the room getting acquainted with everyone present. Whenever a child's hand was held out to him he hopped up on it. He called and talked and scolded. This scene was repeated the second day and the third day, which was the time I witnessed it. I heard later that it was necessary to keep Black Beauty in a cage until after school hours all that winter, so that Gerald and the other children might gain an education.
     On the outskirts of an Indiana town I was invited to call at a country home to see a woodchuck that was hibernating in a barrel, which stood in an unheated shed. It had been a pet for several years, and each winter this same barrel had been prepared for its winter sleep. I found the little creature deeply buried in rolls of cotton and cloth. Its breathing was slow and measured. As I looked at it I got a good idea of how our woodchucks now in their underground homes would be carrying on their long sleep. I could handle this somnolent creature without disturbing its dreams in the least. It had a most peaceful expression, as if hibernating were one of the greatest experiences in life. Let the world have a winter if it wished. The little old woodchuck would slumber on, perhaps dreaming of infinite gardens of carrots, celery, turnip tops, beets, cantaloupes, and everything else that grows. This groundhog had been asleep two months when I saw it, and it still had at least three months of this supersnooze to go. His sides were rolling in fat, and there was no doubt that he had the reserve energy to carry out his program.
     Once during an assembly of a junior high school I asked

how many of the students had pet animals at home. Two thirds of the six hundred boys and girls present raised their hands. A few more questions from me brought out some amazing facts. One boy had a collection of twenty snakes in his basement. It was a source of hysteria for his mother and an annoyance to his father—but the snakes stayed on because when any idea of disposing of them was expressed the boy broke out in tears.
     Another basement was equally monopolized by an accumulation of turtles, toads and frogs. Each one of the odd creatures had a name and each one was precious to the little girl who was their keeper.
     Still another home had a guinea-pig problem. Two pairs had been purchased to begin with. These pairs had young ones, and those young ones had young, and so on and on. They kept multiplying and multiplying, but the boy who owned them didn't want to dispose of any of them. Where that story ended I do not know.
     Dogs were the most popular pets, but there were many youngsters who had cats, birds, horses or ponies. One boy had a pet red fox, another an opossum and still another a four-foot alligator!
     Is there kindness in the world, you ask? Yes, there is. Every pet story I heard that day was a biography of kindness and love. Look down under the surface of this life and you will find how good is the world and how naturally fine are the people in it.
     About this time there was a note from Hi-Bub. He would never take any prizes for his penmanship. His lines ran hither and yon as if they were following a chipmunk.

Between us, however, Giny and I managed to decipher it. Everything was going pretty well with him. He did get zero in arithmetic one day. It was Old Charley's fault, he said. There was no mention of Little John Deer Foot. We were disappointed for we didn't want to lose the Indian boy. Possibly it wasn't exactly right to mention such 'maginaries in writing, we figured. Besides, there was a very exciting bit of news which probably was the most important thing in Hi-Bub's thoughts at the moment. He had a dog! That was in addition to the three cats and one rabbit he had already brought in. "Mom says she is afraid to see me coming home from school because she doesn't know what I'll bring next," the letter said. The dog's name was Hobo. No one knew where he came from. He just appeared one day running down the railroad tracks. "I guess he isn't very pretty," wrote Hi­Bub. "Mom says he isn't. His tail curls and Daddy says it's so the fleas can loop the loop." It wasn't hard for us to picture Hobo as the sort of a saucy little mongrel just designed for Hi-Bub. "Mom asks me please don't bring anything else home," his letter concluded. Then after his shaky signature we read: "P.S. I hope I don't."

IT was early December when our lecture schedule brought us back to a Wisconsin city. I had been looking forward particularly to my lecture in this town. There was a certain sentiment attached to the place, for here we had first met Hi-Bub. He was just beginning his education then, and I gave a program at his grade school. I remember how his beaming face stood out amid all the hundreds who thronged the assembly hall. There is a reason for such experiences. Our friendships in the world are not accidental. Emerson, who lived so close to the heart and purpose of things, tells us it is "not for nothing one face, one character, one fact, makes much impression on [us], another none." Our lives had need of Hi-Bub's friendship, and I like to believe he had need of ours. Now this city was more important to us because in it this blessing had begun.
     My lecture was to be given in the auditorium of a large church not far from Hi-Bub's former school. We arrived early to see that the motion-picture equipment was properly prepared. Among the first to enter the auditorium were some people who knew and loved the northwoods. Giny and I were soon in earnest conversation with them.

We talked enthusiastically about certain lakes, streams and wooded areas we all knew.
     In the midst of this conversation I heard, or thought I did, a thin voice say, "Hello, Tham Cammel." Couldn't be, of course, so I kept on talking.
     "Hello, Tham Cammel," came the words again in such a strong tone that there was no doubt of their reality.
     I turned around and there stood Hi-Bub in person! Beside him was his daddy, and both of them looked at us as if they expected us to faint with surprise. I wasn't far from doing that very thing. For a moment I couldn't say a word. I shook my head and rubbed my eyes in bewilderment, while Hi-Bub let little giggles slip past the hand that partially covered his mouth.
     "Hi-Bub, Hi-Bub!" I finally burst out. "You old lumberjack! You timber cruiser! You woodsman! You pioneer! You are the biggest surprise I ever saw. How did this happen?"
     "Happen?" put in his daddy, casting a wise look at his boy. "Whenever that fellow wants anything, it always happens. He's been planning this for a long time. A friend of his here wrote him you were coming. So I had to drive over two hundred miles to bring him to your lecture!"
     By this time Giny had her arms about the happy Hi­Bub. We were discourteous to our other friends, I fear, though I am sure they understood. Hi-Bub was the center of things for the moment. We plied him with questions.
     The lecture was late starting that night because our

conversation was not finished in time. We sat at one side of the auditorium hearing about Hobo, the new dog, the cats, the rabbit, school and many other important things. Hobo was a "thwell dog," we were informed. He didn't like to take a bath, but he took one when he had to and then immediately hunted up some dirt to roll in. He followed Hi-Bub to school almost every day and waited outside until school was over.
     "But how about Little John Deer Foot?" I asked.
     Hi-Bub shot a glance at me to see if I was making sport of him and his 'maginary friend. Apparently my expression was satisfying, for in soft, sincere tones he told me of the doings of the Indian boy. Little John Deer Foot was having trouble with Old Charley the bear. Old Charley didn't want to go to bed. Like many children he was using every excuse he could to stay up, Hi-Bub revealed seriously. Every day it was the same thing. Little John would say to him, "Charley, you mutht go to thleep." Then Old Charley would say, "I'm thirthty. I'll go to the creek and get a drink, then I'll go to thleep." Old Charley would be gone so long the Indian boy would have to go after him. Maybe he would find the bear miles away, trying to get in a cabin. On the side, Hi-Bub's daddy told me that very thing was happening. Old Charley was not in hibernation as yet, and almost every day some new kind of bear capers were reported, all of which were charged to him.
     During the lecture Hi-Bub and his daddy sat in the front row. I could hear the boy laughing at the scenes and making his own comments. In the midst of the lec­

ture the film broke. "I 'thpect Old Charley did that," I heard him say.
     Afterward Hi-Bub stood right beside me until the usual conversation and comments were over. I could see there was something special on his mind. Presently it came out.
     "Tham Cammel," he said.
     "Yes, Hi-Bub," said I, bending down to his level.
     "Well—Tony couldn't come."
     "Tony couldn't come? Who in the world is Tony?"
     "That is the little friend who wrote you were to be here," explained Hi-Bub's daddy. "The youngster is in a bad way. He is in bed and may have to remain there for a long time. It happened suddenly. Pretty tough on him. What hurts him worst of all is that he can't see your pictures.
     “Tony feelth awful, Tham Cammel," added Hi-Bub, a distressed look in his eyes where joy was so natural. "He duthn't laugh any more."
     "He is a sad little tyke," said the daddy. "We saw him for a while today."
     "Yeth." Hi-Bub picked up the lead again. "An' hith mom theth he mutht laugh and be happy if he want-th to be well. But he duthn't. He jutht lie-th th-till and lookth thad."
     "That's too bad," I said sympathetically. "Couldn't you make him happy, Hi-Bub? You are so happy yourself."
     "No," said the boy, quite dejectedly. "I tried to be funny but I gueth I didn't do very well. He theth he duthn't feel like being happy. He wanted..."
     Hi-Bub hesitated and looked at me with that appeal

that, as his father says, always gets him what he wants.
     "I with he could have come tonight," he added.
     There was an idea developing in my thought. "Hi-Bub," I said. "I wonder if we can't do something for Tony to help him be happy."
     "What?" asked the boy, looking up expectantly.
     "Well—you say he wanted to see my pictures. Now I have tomorrow morning free. If you think Tony would like it, suppose we take our pictures over and show them to him right in his own room. We could arrange it so he would just sit up in bed to see them. What do you think of that plan?"
     There was no question about what Hi-Bub thought of it. With a "Whe-e-e-e" he ran over and threw his arms around me, his eyes again flashing happiness.
     "Oh boy, oh boy—that will be thwell!" he cried. "Tony ith gonna be happy—he'th gonna laugh, I betcha."
     "Yes, Hi-Bub," I said. "But first you must find out if it is the right thing to do. You must ask his mother if she wants us, and if she does, what would be the best time."
     "Oh, yeth—she want-th uth!" affirmed Hi-Bub. "Th-he thed about ten o'clock."
     "Now wait a minute," I said, wrinkling my forehead. "You mean that you had already planned this and made the arrangements?"
     "Yeth," exclaimed Hi-Bub. "I told Tony you would come. Oh boy, oh boy!" He went dancing away in high glee.
     I looked up understandingly at his daddy.

     "You see what I mean?" he asked. "When that fellow sets his mind on something, he gets it."

     At promptly ten o'clock the next morning we were at Tony's house. His mother was expecting us all right, just as Hi-Bub had said. "You are kind to come," she commented as she admitted us. "Hi-Bub asked if it would be all right if you did. There couldn't be anything better for Tony. He has been discouraged, and felt so bad when he couldn't go to your program."
     "Tony is going to be the smallest audience I ever had," I said, "and maybe the greatest."
     Tony proved to be a sad-looking little fellow. He shook hands with me without comment, though there was a look of interest in his eyes. "Tony is tired of his bed," said his mother, as she braced him up on pillows. "He's going to get well and play again the way he used to with Hi-Bub. But he must be very quiet for a while, and he must be—he simply must be happy and cheerful." She flashed a meaningful glance at the youngster, but Tony certainly didn't look very happy.
     We set up our equipment, darkened the room and began to show the pictures. The audience consisted of Tony, his mother, Hi-Bub and his daddy, Giny and me. It wasn't long before I learned that I was simply the operator of the machine. Hi-Bub was the narrator. It was his show and should be, for he knew what had to be done.
     "That'th Th-tubby the chipmunk, Tony," he cried, pointing a stiff little finger. "Look at'im, look at' im."

     Tony did look at 'im. His comment was "My!"
     "There come-th Patty," exclaimed Hi-Bub, "Look at 'im. Look at 'im."
     "What's Patty?" asked Tony, the first full words he had said.
     "He'th a woodchuck, dumbbell," said Hi-Bub. "Oh boy, he'th funny. Look at 'im eat a carrot."
     "My!" said Tony with increasing interest.
     "Hey, lookut, lookut!" shouted the excited Hi-Bub, grabbing Tony by the ear and jerking his head. "That'th Noothanth the red thquirrel. Watch him run out on that rope. Lookut, he'th gonna fall off."
     Nuisance the red squirrel did fall off, a tiny tumble that hurt him not one bit, and yet accomplished a miracle. Tony laughed—a real, spontaneous, giggly laugh.
     "An', Tony, Tony”, ranted the irrepressible Hi-Bub, "Here come-th Cheer. Oh boy, he'th a thwell bird. Lookut hith wingth. Lookut him th-trut."
     By this time Tony wasn't missing a thing. He was leaning forward, not even using the support of his pillows. His own thin little hand was raised again and again as he pointed to things in the pictures. Repeatedly he laughed outright.
     For our part, we were watching the pictures but little. The two children before us were our principal interest, though we stole side glances at Tony's mother to see her wiping away sly tears as Tony rose to the occasion. Hi-Bub's daddy spent his time looking at his son with unrestrained pride.
     Hi-Bub had all admiration coming. I know that I

never have and never will sway an audience as he did that day. Tony was completely carried away. He forgot himself, forgot his confinement, forgot his discomfort and gave himself up to natural joy. He was calling all the animals by name and watching excitedly for each new stunt they did.

     When the film was finished and the last scene had flickered off the screen, Tony was laughing as loudly as Hi-Bub. He even found the energy to engage in a brief boxing match with his former playmate. We had to interrupt this, however, for Hi-Bub's enthusiasm knew no bounds. He imagined that now that the laugh had come to Tony, there was nothing left to do but dress him and start him in a football game.
     "That was wonderful medicine for him," said his mother. "You have no idea how we've tried to awaken his spirit. It seemed he didn't want to get well. Now—well, if this will only last!”
     “I have another idea," I said, "Tony, did you like the pictures?"
     "Oh, my—yes!" said Tony, in a way that left no doubt.
     "Did you like the animals?"
     "Oh, my!"

     "And did you like the woods?"
     Tony just looked his affirmative answer.
     "Well, then," I continued, "here is my idea. If you will keep happy and help yourself get well—if you will try to be like Cheer, the red-winged blackbird, and give out joy to everyone around you—then when you are strong enough, Giny and I will invite you to come up and stay with us so you can play with those animals. That is, if your mother approves."
     There was no question that both mother and Tony highly approved. "Hi-Bub told us of your generous offer," she said. "I didn't know for sure that you meant it, since we were strangers to you. But I am sure it gives Tony a reason to be happy and to get well"
     I looked at Hi-Bub. "You mean that Hi-Bub had already told you we wanted Tony?" I asked.
     "Why, yes, he did—yesterday."
     "Splendid!" I said, trying to save the situation. "Thank you, Hi-Bub."
     I glanced over at his daddy. "You see what I mean?" said he.

     We stood beside our cars saying good-by. Hi-Bub and his daddy would be driving north to their home. We were going south.
     "Tham Cammel," said Hi-Bub, who was trying to drag out the farewell as long as possible.
     "Yes, Hi-Bub."
     "Would you be comin' home at Chrithmuth?"
     "Oh, it would be fun to do that, Hi-Bub," I exclaimed,

"but I am afraid we can't. You see, we wouldn't have any place to stay."
     "Couldn't you th-tay at the Thanctuary?" asked Hi­Bub. He had practiced a long time to say that last word.
     "No, our cabin isn't built for winter. We would be very cold there."
     "Couldn't you th-tay with uth?" he persisted.
     I laughed. "You know your cabin is already filled with your family. I am afraid we would have to sleep with Hobo."
     "He'th a thwell dog," commented Hi-Bub.
     "Yes—but I think he wouldn't want us to crowd him. No, Hi-Bub, I guess Giny and I can't get up there for Christmas, though we would like to, if our cabin were the right kind."
     We said our good-bys, promising to see one another in the spring. But there was a funny little look in Hi-Bub's eyes that Giny and I both noticed.