GINY and I sang as we followed the winding course of our forest road. We were homeward bound! Yet a few miles and we would reach that little cabin set like a jewel on an island, centering the life-teeming forest of northern Wisconsin.
    Our song--whether music critics would approve of it or not--gave vent to our feelings. It expressed what we wished to say to ourselves and for ourselves. Through the years we had sung it beside campfires, or as we drifted in a canoe along remote silent shores. In cities we had used it to lift our thoughts above urban confusion. We sang it during difficulties to foster faith. And now its words were being lived again:

         I know a land that holds our treasure,
         Where blessings flow forth without measure,
         Far from all turmoil and aimless strife,
         Where all nature sings with life.

         I know a road that winds and winds
         Through cooling woods of towering pines,
         That scent each breeze with fragrance rare,
         And sweet bird songs fill the air.

         From the end of the road a trail leads on
         Beyond where the woodsman's ax has gone,
         Through verdant halls where the wild life roams
         And shadows hide elves and gnomes.

         At the end of the trail is a wooded lake
         So cool and clear where the shy deer take
         Their fill in the night when the wide world sleeps
         And darkness their secret keeps.

        On the shore of the lake is an old camp ground,
         In its quiet and peace our treasure's found.
         Here God is so near, here doth love prevail
         In that camp on a lake, over road and trail.

     This song was written when the going to our Sanctuary was fraught with problems and savored of adventure. No cabin awaited us then. The tent we carried on our backs was our dwelling, and the packsacks we tugged and lifted bore our supplies. The coming of conveniences had only deepened our devotion to our forest haven, so that the sentiment of our song held true. Travel had become easier, roads came closer, a cabin had replaced a tent, yet "Here God is so near, here doth love prevail."
     We had reached the road's end. By way of greeting to the region we walked down to the lake shore, looked out to distant pine-covered hills, and dipped our fingers in the waters to shake hands with incoming wavelets. From this point we must travel by water a slight two miles.
     Anxious to close the last gap separating us from our Sanctuary, we opened a little shed which stands at the road's end, and brought out our old canoe. It was then that the smiles died temporarily from our lips. The old canoe was in deplorable condition! When I took hold of the railing to lift it, slivers of rotted wood came out in my hand. There was a crack high in the side through

which I could see daylight. The bottom was warped with potential breaks. Decay was appearing at many vital spots. Some repair work might delay the day of final destruction, but there was too little to build on to have the work last long. "Buddie," as we had named this grand old craft, was nearing the end of its service.
     Giny and I had known when we stored the canoe away the previous autumn that it was in bad shape. Winter cold had deepened all scars. Buddie was a veneer canoe, made of two layers of birch and an inner layer of cedar. Finished with clear varnish so that the natural beauty of the wood was revealed, it looked like the featherweight birchbark canoes made by Indians and pioneers. The strength of the craft was as amazing as its lightness and maneuverability. Through the years it had carried loads and withstood strains that would have been fatal to any craft of less stability. But now the veneer was parting in a dozen places, braces were crumbling, and the sides separating from railings.
     "Poor old Buddie!" I said, patting the canoe affectionately.
     "Will it get us over to the Sanctuary?" Giny asked.
     I nodded. There was still some service in the old craft. It wasn't our immediate convenience that concerned me. I was faced with losing a pal, a companion. No doubt it is silly to become so attached to an inanimate thing. Yet any real, paddle-swinging, packsack-toting canoeist would understand.
     Buddie had shared many of our adventures. I knew

just what to expect from it, knew when to apply the stroke, when to back water, knew just what response I would get. I knew just how it would ride high waves, or skim through fast rapids. There had been times when it was my only companion for days of wilderness travel. It had been a true partnership affair. It had carried me across the lakes, I had carried it across portages. Often the old craft turned upside down on a shore had been my only shelter. Sometimes when we have reached the down end of a bad rapids or the lee side of a rough lake I have patted the side of the faithful old canoe and said, "Well done, Buddie--thanks a million!"
     "Maybe we won't have to give it up right away," Giny was saying, with her usual hopefulness. "We could use it through this season when the lake is quiet--wear life jackets if necessary."
     Now that is what I mean by a true canoe lover! Giny is one of the best. It would have been neither a great expense nor much difficulty to buy another canoe. Besides, we had another one which we seldom used. Any one without sentiment would have said, "All right, the old boat is finished! That gives us some fine kindling wood." Not Giny!
     We picked up the light craft and carried it to the lake shore, Giny at one end, I at the other. Here in better light we examined it more closely. The pattern of disintegration was plain.
     We fell to looking and laughing at the many marks and scars. It was like reading an old diary. Across the

bottom were four long parallel scratches indented into the wood, plainly visible though varnished over. It was the autograph left by Bunny Hunch and Big Boy, our pet bear cubs, that day years ago when I took them for a ride. I should say, when I started to take them for a ride, for we had hardly gone ten feet before they tipped us over, scratching this record in the canoe as they did so.
     There were other deep indentations along the railings, as though done with a chisel. This was the work of our porcupines, old Inky, and the more recent two, Salt and Pepper. The varnish was much to their liking, but unable to make so delicate a bite they had taken some of the wood, too. Toward the bow was some green paint, also deep under coats of varnish. Rack and Ruin, the raccoons, had done that by dipping their ever- inquisitive front feet in a can of paint and then trailing across the canoe. I could have sandpapered it off, but I never wanted to. Then there were dainty little marks along the edge of the seats. These spoke of the days when our five red squirrels, Eeny, Meeny, Miney, Mo and Still-Mo, were developing their teeth. And what could be better for incisors, molars and such things than to nibble on the crisp veneer of that canoe?
     Then there was the "wound stripe," as I referred to a large square patch in Buddie's bow. A thin copper plate had been bolted and glued in place, in color a sharp contrast to the rest of the canoe. One uninformed might have thought it somewhat marred the beauty of the craft, but to us who knew the story it was a badge of honor. I recall

the day very vividly, still with a shudder. I was out in the canoe, just idly cruising the shores. The lake was calm and a peaceful dusk was settling on the landscape. I rounded a little point, and saw some distance ahead an outboard motorboat, in which a boy was laboring to get the engine started. Outboard motors did not behave so well in those days. There were a lot of little frailties which kept them from starting at the right time and sometimes stopped them at the wrong time. The boy was becoming quite impatient. No doubt he had been cranking futilely for a half hour or more. As I watched him, he stood up to give the starter rope a harder jerk. The engine suddenly started off at terrific speed, the boat shot forward, and the boy, losing his balance, plunged over the side. He could swim well, but this offered him little safety. The boat, running wildly without a pilot, was circling about, its motor snarling like some vicious beast bent on destruction. Twice it passed near the swimmer, its fiercely whirling propeller blades churning the water but a few inches from him.
     Fear gripped me for a moment. It seemed the distance involved and the circumstances would make it impossible to get to the boy in time! I remember saying aloud then to the old canoe, "Buddie, we can do it! The strength of God is on our side." I lunged forward to the center of the canoe on my knees, dipped my paddle in and stroked as I never had before. How Buddie responded!
     The boat passed the boy again, this time actually touching him. Buddie and I were nearing rapidly. There was

only one thing to do. "Buddie, you have to take it!" I called, as I gave the stroke that sent the craft right into the path of the boat. There was a sickening crash as the motorboat struck us. Slivers from Buddie's bow sprayed across the surface of the water. It was only a moment's delay in the frantic flight of the heavier craft, but enough to permit me to pull myself within reach of the motor and shut it off.
     With the snarl taken out of the air, the habitual quiet of the region seemed deeper than ever. The boy swam over and climbed into his boat. I sat looking at the gaping hole in my canoe. The wound was rather high on the side, and by shifting my weight I kept it from taking in lake water. The boy was as sorry for the damage done the canoe as he was grateful for his rescue.
     "Never mind, lad," I said. "We will patch Buddie some way. Only the best canoe in the world could have done what this one did today. We'll be proud of that scar."
     Giny was thinking of this as she ran her fingers over the copper plate, searching for breaks in the seam. In a moment she looked up at me, smiling. "There are other markings on Buddie that do not show so plainly, but they are surely there," she said. Giny can never remain melancholy long. "There are the imprint of starlight, the blush of dawns and sunsets, and the autograph of wavelets. . . ."
     "And the polishing done by moonbeams and the fingerprints of dew!" I added, my mood brightening.

     As we loaded our equipment into the old canoe, we became happier, remembering the thousand and one nights and days we had spent in it. There must be somewhere between bow and stern the written record of northern lights whose gentle beams had caressed its sides. Somewhere and in some way it bore record of meteors streaking the skies, of the coyote's cry, of the soft whir of wings as the owl passed, of the beaver splash and the great buck posing in the moonlight.
     We launched out into the lake and paddled through the winding channel leading to our Sanctuary. A tiny

trickle of water found its way through a scar in the canoe bow. It flowed ominously past Giny's feet as she moved out of its way. "That isn't so much!" she commented, though she eyed the leak regretfully.
     We paused in our stroking and laid our paddles across our knees to note the smoothness and silence of our old craft. It seemed much the same as it always had, except for the trickle that flowed on. There was truly magic about Buddie. A muskrat was seen swimming across the channel, and so quietly did we approach him that he did not detect us until we were within reach of him. Then he dived to obscurity. An old blue heron was pacing along the shore in measured strides. We drifted to within a few feet of him before he gave his loud alarming squawk and took awkwardly to air.
     "Buddie, you still have your old charm," said Giny, patting the canoe. "I'll predict we have a lot more ad ventures together, before we give you up."

THE day of our arrival was the sort in which hurry does not fit. Water kept coming in through the leak in Buddie's bow until a sizable puddle swished about on the bottom. We shuffled the baggage, protecting the more delicate things--and just let it swish!
     That romantic, lazy warmth of spring was in the air. Nature didn't want to go anywhere or do anything in particular. She just wanted to lie in the sunshine on the hillsides, fan herself with an occasional breeze and let fancy take its course. We were infected with the mood. We slowly zigzagged our way toward the island, paddling almost without purpose. Everything in the forest world was so drowsy it seemed to be walking in its sleep.
     "There is a dream engraved somewhere on the hull of this canoe--remember?" Giny asked--a question in keeping with the hour.
     "A dream, dear?" I reflected for a moment, but did not catch the theme.
     "Yes, a dream we had four years ago, together with Sandy the Squoip. Now do you recollect it?"
     "Why, yes--surely I remember." I chuckled. "Sandy! Funny old Sandy the Squoip! How he loved Buddie! The boy just lived on plans that never got out of the dream stage. I wonder where he is now."

     By comments we pieced our recollection together. Sandy the Squoip was a perfectly silly nickname that got attached to one of our young friends during his brief visit to our Sanuctuary in the spring of 1941. He was eighteen at the time, and adept at foolishness. It all arose out of a series of gags, introduced by the boy himself. It was a dialogue. With both my dignity and sanity affected by the spell of the northwoods, I co- operated with him. Sandy--six feet tall, slender, muscular, and crowned with wavy light-colored hair of Scandinavian origin--would assume the attitude and culture of a Boweryite.
     "Say, guy!" he would drawl at me.
     This was my cue to abandon all semblance of intelligence, and answer in an innocent and superior tone, "Yes?" Then the thoroughly inane repartee went something like this:
     He: "I saw a boid tudday, up'na tree."
     I: "You don't mean a boid, my friend, you mean a bird."
     He: "Huh? Well--it choiped like a boid, and it was after a woim."
     I: "No--not a woim, you mean a worm.
     He: "Huh? But it squoimed like a woim, and it was inna doit."
     I: "Not doit--no, you mean dirt!"
     He: "Well, it looked like doit, and it choimed like a squoip."
     Don't try to make anything out of that last sentence. It is devoid of significance or the slightest suggestion of

meaning. Sandy called it "the supreme goat-getter"--because Giny simply couldn't stand it. When he reached this climax, usually we went running out the cabin doors for dear life, mops, brooms, frying pans or whatever Giny could lay her hands on coming after us with rather good aim.

     Soon the coined word "Squoip" became fixed to our northwoods vocabulary, signifying anything or anyone altogether lacking in sanity. A Squoip was four degrees lower than a nitwit. And for his part in introducing this idiocy into the Sanctuary vernacular--already having

more than its share of crazy traditions and customs--our young friend was officially named "The Squoip."
     It is proverbial that a rich man can afford to wear rags. For similar reason, our sandy-haired lad could well afford the uncomplimentary insinuation of his nickname. He had a most appealing personality and was rich in ability and accomplishments. His record through high school had been splendid.
     We remembered well how he looked in those early teen years, already manly but retaining the lighthearted joy of youth. His smile was so near the surface that it was breaking through all the time, in his eyes, on his lips, in his cheery attitude, in his strong hand clasp. Sandy's nose was a little crooked. That was a reminder of the time he won an inter-scholastic wrestling title. It had been twisted a little more during a hard-fought football game. But you never felt that his strength was a threat to anyone. He was one of the most unchallenging people I have ever known. His easy manners made everyone in his company feel free, and at the same time all who met him knew he couldn't be pushed around.
     Sandy had a problem. It became more and more heavy upon his shoulders as high school years drew to a close. In spite of his fine record, he had a growing feeling that he was a misfit. His companions were heading for clearly defined objectives. One was going to a certain college for training in architecture, another chose civil engineering, another electrical engineering, another prepared for a business course. But Sandy rebelled at such prospects

and he couldn't understand why. He really desired success. He wanted his parents to be proud of him. But cities and commercial careers irked him deeply.
     His home was a northern Minnesota town. Here he could enter the great canoe wilderness areas of the United States and Canada quickly. From the moment he did, the world sparkled with joy and purpose. It was hard labor to lift a pen for an English composition, but he could carry an eighty-pound pack and a ninety-pound canoe without a grunt! There seemed to be little or no reason for the tricks of trigonometry, but figuring out his way through the wilderness and living by the cleverness of woodcraft--that was vastly important. It was no light problem for Sandy. He feared he was a failure, and that is the greatest fear that ever assails human thought.
     Sandy had about decided to smother all his natural inclinations, and force himself through an orthodox career. He would take up some standard training--any kind, it didn't make much difference which--and live in a way that would avoid the world's laughter and criticism.
     Then the planning of his immediate experience was taken from him. He, and thousands of others like him, were drawn into military service--to be ready for something everyone hoped would never happen.
     Sandy visited us on a furlough soon after he had been inducted into military service. His time was short, but sufficient for him to fall in love with our Sanctuary, our animal friends and particularly with Buddie the canoe.

Sandy was a thoroughbred canoeist. He could handle bow paddle or stern with the best of them, and he knew the sentimental side of canoe lore too. He admired the way Buddie was formed, the way it lifted and balanced on his shoulders, the way it handled in the water. Every possible hour of his stay was spent in or with our canoe.
     "I want to see how old Buddie would look in that Canadian country!" he exclaimed, his eyes kindled with that grand enthusiasm with which he was blessed. "Just fancy that shapely hull beneath the picture rocks of Lac La Croix or in the narrows of Agnes Lake!" Then with an explosive "Oh, boy!" he brought a fist against the palm of his other hand in a gesture that spoke volumes.
     Such enthusiasm brings about its own demonstration. I was talking to the lad with serious purpose before I realized it. "Sandy, did you ever come across a little wilderness lake, well off the main traveled canoe routes, deep in game country, where we might go to study animals and not be disturbed by other travelers?"
     Sandy the Squoip nearly popped with excitement. "Yes, I have--er, no I haven't," he stammered, sensing the reason for the question and afraid he might say the wrong thing. "That is, I know of little lakes that have no names and no trails. Why? What are we going to do?" He was on his feet standing before me, animated as if he expected to start that minute.
     "Take it easy, you Squoip," I laughed, trying to be calm but with only partial success. "You see, Giny and I need to find such a little lake where we may carry on

studies which are no longer easy here. We love this spot, and it will always be our home, but more and more people are coming into this region. As you know, when people come in animals either go out or change their habits in some ways. Especially do we have a problem in working with larger animals now--such as bear, wildcats and wolves. So we have our dream in which there is a lake already named--Sanctuary Lake. We have never seen it, don't know just where to look for it, in fact don't really know if such a place exists--but we dream anyway. If we ever found it we would go to it for part of each season to work at those things we cannot do here. Sanctuary Lake would have to be small so we could go out in all kinds of weather. It would have high land and low land and be marked with great animal runaways."
     To give Sandy an idea like that is like tossing gasoline on a fire. In an instant he was aflame with enthusiasm. "It would have a little stream running through an aspen forest, for beaver!" he joined in, taking the subject right away from me. "There would be an eagle's nest on one shore and an osprey's too. I'll bet our camp would be in a great stand of virgin red pines. There would be cedar swamps for deer in winter, lily pads along the shore to draw moose, berry patches for bears    Oh, boy, when do we start?"
     "Easy Sandy, easy!" I laughed. "This is only a dream. If you make so much noise you may wake us up. Have you forgotten about the army?"
     "No--but part of me is going to stay in that dream!"

said Sandy, his enthusiasm unabated. "I have to find Sanctuary Lake. What a trip for Buddie. We are going to make this dream come true. I'll be through with the army in a year. Then can we go?"
     The promise was made, though my hopes dared not picture his return from the army in a year, or in two years. Intuitively we knew what was before us.
     But Sandy the Squoip was irrepressible. As he bade us good-by at the end of his furlough, he stooped down and patted the old canoe. "Buddie, you and I have a date--a year from now," he said confidently.
     A year from then Sandy was undergoing special and strenuous training high in our Western mountains. The Pearl Harbor attack had pulled our heads out of the sands and we realized we were at war. Another year passed and our lad was on his way for the great test. When last heard from he was fighting in the mountains of northern Italy. There were promotions. There was a citation for bravery. Then there were months during which we heard nothing from or of our Sandy. VE Day had come and guns were silenced in half the world.
     "But we are going to hear from him," said Giny confidently, as we sculled along, now nearing our island. "I just know Sandy is all right. If nothing else would carry him through, the desire to find Sanctuary Lake would bring him back. Only now--" she lifted her feet which were dripping with the water we had taken in--" I am afraid Buddie will never carry out his part of the dream. What do you think?"

     "I'll be satisfied if we just get up to that shore before we swamp," I replied, my skepticism aggravated by the waves that were washing up my trouser legs.
     There had been a canoe song written about our planned search for Sanctuary Lake. It was to the melody of the Marines' Hymn which gives as fine a rhythm for paddling as it does for marching. We recalled it now, and sang it to quicken our pace before calamity overtook us.

         Up along the north horizon,
         Where Aurora's searchlights play,
         There's a lake that rests in solitude
         And the wildwood chants its lay.
         In the land of bears and beavers,
         In the haunt of doe and fawn,
         It is somewhere east of sunset
         And it's somewhere west of dawn.

         So come, you merry voyageurs,
         With your paddles and bateaux,
         To the land of sky-blue waters
         Where the north-bound rivers flow.
         We will search the wide-flung wilderness
         For the lake where peace lives on.
         It is somewhere east of sunset
         And it's somewhere west of dawn.

IT Is probable that never has another canoe had such tender handling as we gave Buddie in those first hours. We felt guilty if we scraped the hull against a reed, or permitted the shore brush to touch a rail.
     When we reached the island we ran aground so gently that there was not a grind or a jolt. Quickly we unloaded ourselves and the few articles we had brought along. Then we lifted the craft and placed it upside down on the rack that had been built for it. The heavier baggage could be brought over in other boats. Buddie's strength must be conserved for special occasions. I suggested that all it needed was a pillow and someone to sing it to sleep, but my attempted witticism did not get a smile out of Giny. Buddie's condition was no laughing matter. In the days to come all the calking, gluing, patching and varnishing possible would be done to that thin, shapely hull.
     Now that we had landed at our island, full realization that we were once again in our forest Sanctuary crept over us. We dug up a bit of the sacred soil with our toes, pinched off some balsam needles and held them to our nostrils to get the fragrance, picked up some dry leaves and fondled them, then let our eyes wander from one

loved object to another. This was home--the most beautiful spot on earth, in our not-too-humble opinion. At once the interval since our departure months ago collapsed to utter nothingness. What space in memory was there for the trials and tribulations of a lecture tour? Had not our hearts been here all the time? We had caught up with them, and now recovered from the illusion that we had ever been away. This moment we could be just returning from a trip to town for supplies. Perhaps we had only taken a turn around the lake shore. At least there was no time but now, no place but here, and in our thoughts that moment it seemed that this was all that had ever been.
     We walked slowly to a point where we might pause and look quietly on our inviting little cabin. How could such a volume of comfort, security and happiness come out of a thing so modest and unpretentious? There had been uncounted evenings of good fellowship with friends, days of sunny brilliance, hours upon hours of books and many periods used in quiet thought. There were music and writing, wholesome conversation and homey security.
     Giny directed my attention to a neat little hole which had been chewed under the eaves into the cabin attic. Whatever animal had done this was able to enter it from the roof of the kitchen. We always act indignant and complain a lot when such things happen, but since some creature is always chewing holes in our house, there was no need to be particularly concerned about this one. Nor were we left in the dark long as to who had done it. Through the opening came crawling a saucy-looking red

squirrel. It jumped to the roof, eyed us and then began chattering excitedly.
     "Still-Mo!" Giny called. "It is Still-Mo, look at that tail."
     Yes, it was Still-Mo. That bushy tail was an indisputable mark of identification. Through an accident, the

creature had lost half of its tail when quite young. Later the hair of this tail had become very thick and bushy like a feather duster.
     "Hi, there, Still-Mo, you rascal!" I called. "Do you know you are written into a book? Not that you care a bit!" Giny carried on the conversation with the creature and it chattered back an endless stream of things we could not begin to understand.
     Yes, even at that moment the book Eeny, Meeny, Miney,

Mo--and Still-Mo was with the publishers. Nature lovers were soon to begin reading about this very chickaree that had chewed a hole in our attic and now stood there looking down at us. Still-Mo held a prominent place in the book. I had given him a great build-up, in line with my most honest convictions. He was the big he-man of the red-squirrel family. His was the kind of character which, in men, makes the explorer, the adventurer, the seeker of remote places, the doer of great and valiant things. When barely six weeks old, Still-Mo had climbed our highest trees and explored the most remote corners of the island. While the rest of his family yet held to baby ways, he was reaching out into the world. We saw him swim to a neighboring island and back again. He swam to the mainland and returned. He was pushing back his horizons, and no deed seemed too difficult or dangerous for him to attempt. Surely this was a super-squirrel among squirrels, the type that in our race gives us our Columbuses, Admiral Byrds, our Livingstones and Stanleys.
     As I was pondering this thought, Still-Mo had disappeared through the new attic doorway. An instant later Giny caught my arm. "Look!" she said excitedly. "Sam, we have been double-crossed!"
     Still-Mo had reappeared, jumping down to the roof. Immediately another little red head had peaked out of the hole and looked around with an impudent expression. It was the chattering image of Still-Mo. The awful truth dawned on me. Still-Mo was not a great "he-man" at all--Still-Mo was a mother.

     "Heavens! More-Mo?" I exclaimed, looking at the youngster. More-Mo has been the name of that squirrel ever since.
     As More-Mo dropped down and scampered about the roof awkwardly, another little head appeared at the opening!
     "Two-Mo! Help!" cried Giny, throwing up her arms--and Two-Mo it was who jumped down and ran up to his unintentionally deceiving mother.
     Still a third little head looked out of the hole in our attic!
     "No-Mo! Please!" I called, and thus was the third one christened.
     Still-Mo seemed very proud of her children More-Mo, Two-Mo and No-Mo. She was quite unapologetic for the mix-up she had made. It seemed to me I saw a grin on her face as she looked down at us with a sly wink--though of course in my bewildered state of mind at that moment I could imagine almost anything. What was I to do? Certainly, I couldn't do anything with Still-Mo, so at first opportunity I wired my publishers. "A terrible inaccuracy in my book," my telegram read. "Still-Mo has double-crossed us and turned out to be a lady. She is nursing triplets in our attic, and doesn't care whether we like it or not. Can you hold up the book until I make some corrections or else drive Still-Mo out of the country so no one will ever see her? As a famous Hollywood star would say, 'I'm mortified! I'm humiliated!'"
     The unconsoling reply came, "Sorry, but the book is

already on the press. Too late to do anything but hide your face. Tell Still-Mo for us we'll pay two bushels of acorns of hush money if she will keep quiet about the whole affair."
     Even on the morning of our arrival, I knew that Still-Mo and her jabbering youngsters would never keep quiet about anything. They chattered and screamed at one another while they raced in and out of our attic, sometimes jumping about on the thin boards overhead until it sounded as if some horses had gone through that tiny hole.
     "Maybe you would like something hot to drink," said Giny with a meaning look. "You are pale and fagged out. Is something bothering you?"
     "I could choim like a squoip!" I said, and then made a record hundred-yard dash just ahead of a flying broom.

GINY and I have become convinced that names are vastly important. We share in the popular fault of forgetting the names of acquaintances and friends, but we know that to remember them would be better manners. You are closer to anything or anyone you can call by name, and a feeling of possession comes with the use of a designating title. It is for this reason that Giny and I name things whether animate or inanimate.
     We faced a new problem in dealing out names that first day. When we had recovered somewhat from the shock of Still-Mo's double cross, and had completed the first tasks of moving into our home, we found time to look around. We were immediately impressed with the evidence of fresh digging we saw. Little piles of sand and gravel in a dozen spots marked the entrances to some newly made underground homes. We had no doubt as to what animal had done this. Very soon our convictions were substantiated. Looking out of one of the holes was a tiny animal, brownish gray in color, with ears shaped like little seashells, eyes that stared unblinkingly as if formed of glass, and a homely face now made even less attractive by a coating of sand and dust. As we watched, another of like description peeked out timidly from under a shed.

Still another popped out from a different hole, and a fourth went scooting through the brush. Of  a sudden the island seemed to have sprouted baby woodchucks or groundhogs. They were appearing from every side, looking at us with infantile curiosity and dashing hither and yon with apparently no object other than to be on the move. Though the first impression was that there were at least two dozen, when we got to the bottom of the matter we learned that there were only six of them.
     Of course, the little fellows were quite welcome. Our island is not large enough to support so many woodchucks, but we could bring in food for them until nature distributed them about the country-side. But they must be named--that was the real problem. Six good names are not easy to think up in a hurry.
     We had some idea of what they should be called, however. Our readers will remember earlier books in which was told the story of our original woodchuck pet named Sausage because she was ground hog. It was her pun name. One of Sausage's offspring, named Link Sausage, had established her residence on the Isle of Patmos. The sextuplets we looked upon now were her young--that is, little Sausages. Therefore we named one chubby chuck Thuringer--a name that eventually was reduced to "Yethir." A second one was distinguished by his actions. Obviously he was an irritable youngster, snarling and biting at his family. He bit everyone, bit his brothers, bit his sisters, even bit his own mother. He was the worst brat of the group, so we named him Bratwurst. A third

one was a jitterbug! She was dancing around all the time, never still for a moment, so we called her Salami. Number four was a retiring, quiet little creature whom we named Wiener. Number five was christened Patty. Patty Sausage later proved to be our favorite. Perhaps it was because he drew sympathy. He was the runt of the family and sort of a natural punching bag. All the others were larger and stronger than he, and he was constantly being bossed, abused and pushed around. He had the faculty of being in the wrong place at the right time. Whenever either of us stepped on or kicked a creature unintentionally, it was sure to be Patty. When we dropped something, it generally lighted on Patty.
     Then came the naming of number six. He was easy to identify both by his manner and by his appearance. In size he exceeded the others considerably. He was a born

prankster, a practical joker, and in every action just a smart alec. I have seen him make a run at little Patty, strike him unexpectedly from behind and send him rolling and squealing down a hillside. Others must stay back from food until he had his fill, even though there would be enough for an army of woodchucks. He bullied the entire family. As days went on, he picked on us too. He chewed up the door mat, left teeth marks on doors and sills, chewed up a towel and ate a cake of soap I left within his reach, and bit holes in my best breeches. At first we just referred to him as Smart Alec or Old Number Six. But one day when I watched him going around looking for trouble and finding it, I waved my hand in disgust and exclaimed, "Oh, Bologna!" 0. Bologna has been his name ever since!
     Link Sausage and her tribe--Thuringer, Bratwurst, Salami, Wiener, Patty and 0. Bologna--certainly honeycombed our island with their network of underground homes. 0. Bologna dug one tunnel right under the cornerstone of our cabin. He would! We located eighteen entrances to their caves. Probably there were others in the brush that we did not find.
     However, we loved our little family of ground hogs. There is no creature in the forest more awkward and homely, and from the human viewpoint, there are few creatures of less value than the woodchuck. His hide isn't worth the taking, he isn't very good as food, he eats much and plants nothing. There is little to love him for except his pudgy little self. And maybe right there we see a vir-

tue. It is good to love for no reason. Love that is bestowed in compensation for some favor or blessing has selfishness mixed in. We had to love the six Sausages just because they were alive. They couldn't do anything for us except give us a chance to love them. And after all, I believe that is enough.

WE USED Buddie, the canoe, frequently those June days and evenings. The old craft creaked and groaned when we lifted it; it shed slivers as a porky does its quills; it let in little samples of lake water occasionally-- but it stayed afloat and held its proud head up as jauntily as ever. The worst leaks were stopped temporarily and the weakest places strengthened by one means or another. Pieces of canvas were fastened here and there, glue poured into cracks and varnish added layer upon layer until Giny said she felt as if she were sailing around in just a coat of paint. Buddie's efficiency was not impaired in the least, however. It responded to the paddle as well as in its best days. And at night, when we couldn't see the patches, it looked as beautiful as ever.
     Fortunately, June offered us many quiet evenings. Waters were habitually calm and glasslike. For a few nights the moon looked down upon the forest world through a thin veil of springtime moisture. The soft light gave fairylike beauty to solitude. Buddie fitted perfectly into the picture. The broad beam kept it from sinking deeply, and sometimes it seemed not to dent the water on which it rested.
     We renewed our acquaintance with old haunts. Up

the creek we found beavers were building a new house and starting a new dam. Along the north shore, where an ancient animal runway comes down to the water's edge, we saw deer occasionally. However, we could not expect them to be numerous at this season. This was fawning time. Back in the secret chambers of the forest, little spotted, wide-eyed Bambis were staring up at the great, bewildering woodland world into which they had been born. Does were busy with the care of their little ones.
     We discovered that bears were around. They were seldom seen, but we found their tracks and heard their grunts. We saw one of our old raccoons, but these animals also were busy with family problems. Once in the gray light of dusk the fluid form of a woods coyote soundlessly emerged from a balsam thicket, crossed a little clearing, and disappeared into the dark depths of a hemlock grove. The Sanctuary was teeming with life.
     One of these first days was made brighter by a letter from Sandy the Squoip. He said he had been half ashamed to write the letter. Apparently there had been other mail started to us, but lost or delayed somewhere in war-zone confusion. He had written us before that he came through the fighting without a scratch. Hadn't even taken the crease out of his breeches, he said. Then--the disgrace of it!--he had gone to England and there was struck by one of our own jeeps. Lots of Packards around, and he had to be hit by a jeep! For no reason at all, as he expressed it, he was put in a hospital. He insisted it was just curiosity. The doctors wanted to know why a jeep

couldn't make a dent in him. "I should have been home long before this," he wrote. "We rate a rest furlough and then we will head for that other war we've been hearing about. I'll be coming your way, and I can't decide which I want to see most--you or Buddie."
     "Now what are we going to do?" Giny asked with concern. "Buddie is having all it can do to hold together from day to day."
     "I'll have a talk with that canoe," I said with a one-sided smile. "Buddie will hold together for Sandy. But just to make sure, I am going to town."
     "What for?"
     "Buckets of glue, gallons of varnish, yards of canvas and plenty of wire, string and some adhesive tape!"
     "Maybe a little chewing gum would help, too," suggested Giny.

IT IS a mighty good plan to enjoy getting fire wood if you are going to live in the north country. Getting wood is something that must be done, particularly if you have a fireplace. A fireplace is the supreme part of a home, and I wouldn't want to be without one. But it has an appetite that knows no end. No snowdrift could melt faster than a woodpile does in the late fall and early spring days. However much is put up in reserve, the hour will come sure as taxes and faster when you have to go "awood-gettin'." Yes, it is much better to like it, because you have to do it anyway.
     There is never a spring or an autumn when our woodpile does not get close to the vanishing point. The spring in which this story began was no exception. The once-impressive mound of sixteen-inch hardwood chunks had reached the place where I was scratching about in the leaves to find the few pieces that might have hidden there. It was high time for "wood-gettin'."
     On a warm, clear morning when there was just a touch of that old human laziness commonly called spring fever in the air, I loaded my sawbuck, crosscut saw and ax in the boat and rowed to the mainland. Birds were mighty happy. For a few moments I wished I was built like

them, with a coat of feathers to keep me warm so that I wouldn't have to go sawing wood, and could just sit on a limb of a tree and sing. But by the time I had located and lifted the first two logs I was warmed to my job and grateful that I could saw and chop. I found dry cedar for kindling and near at hand a tall, perfectly seasoned yellow birch just yearning for the fireplace. Cutting was done as close to the water as possible so that the wood could be taken to the island conveniently.

     I was working near our old Friendship Trail that wandered through the forest to cabins of friends on the shore of a neighboring lake. Salt, a pet porcupine now several years old, appeared in one of the trees I inspected. I knew him instantly. He came down the tree hurriedly, tail first as usual, and stopped about four feet from the ground, hanging to the bark and looking at me.

    "Salt, you prickly old rascal!" I cried as I went up to him. "Where have you been, and where is your pal Pepper?" The story of Salt and Pepper has been told before, but there are always new pages to add to their book. Salt eyed me for a moment, and then started playing in his characteristic way. I had hoped to see him during our summer hikes, but I feared lest he had outgrown his play. Not in the least. He dodged back and forth on the tree trunk, looking at me from one side and then the other. He got to the ground and chased me around, causing me to use both time and energy that had been promised to the woodpile. Presently he stopped, sat up, snorted, made some abrupt decision and went hustling away into the forest, possibly for some forgotten appointment.
     I went back to the neglected task of the day, all smiles and chuckles at having found this little forest friend. There is some special kind of pleasure in meeting a forest creature who has been a pet, and who still remembers us. Giny and I never cease to thrill at such an adventure. It would be so easy for them to forget us in the long months while we are away. Living is difficult for them and problems many. Therefore it impresses us as being a triumph of friendship when they hold memory of us and show pleasure at our infrequent meetings.
     Other familiar creatures came to me that day. There was Stubby, the chipmunk now in his fourth year, who raced up unhesitatingly, ran out on the log I was sawing and jumped to my shoulder. I had come prepared for his visit, and dealt out some peanuts with which my pock-

ets bulged. A few moments later came Nuisance, the old red squirrel, now in his sixth year. Gray hairs were mixed with the red, but he was as active as ever. A peanut tossed within his reach sent him away rejoicing. And, of course, wood-getting was not receiving all the attention promised it.
     There was a fine maple log on the sawbuck and the saw was singing its way through it, when off in the forest I heard a human voice. I listened intently. The tones were those of a child in considerable excitement, though at first I could not make out what was being said. Obviously the owner of the voice was coming down Friendship Trail, and since there was no cry of alarm or distress, I waited. Words were becoming more distinct, though they had a peculiar flourish to them that kept me guessing.
     "Peanut-th! Peanut-th!" lisped the oncomer. "Here I come, an' I got peanut-th!"
     The words had a hop and a skip to them, as though some youngster were dancing through the forest in the style of Peter Pan.
     "Th-tubby! Noothanth! I got peanut-th," the happy voice went on. "Come an' get 'em. Peanut-th, peanut- th!"
     The sound and the soundmaker drew nearer. When he came to view he was just what I had expected--a round-faced, rosy-cheeked, chubby boy of about nine. He was merrily skipping along carrying a brown paper bag in one hand.
     I felt inclined to envy the little fellow his innocent

freedom. His was an enchanted world, I could tell by the way he looked eagerly from side to side. Maybe there was just a little tinge of fear present in him, not of being harmed, but that the very things he imagined were there might actually be. For he was at that sublime state of growth where fairies could be flittering about in the luxuriant foliage overhead. Brownies could be scurrying among the leaves. Gnomes could be peering out at him from shadows. Indian braves, chieftains and princesses, overlooked by the white man's sweeping advance, could be encamped just over the top of the nearest knoll. And right around any bend in the trail he might enter a realm of magic where trees could speak to him, animals call him by name and all the marvels of Alice-in-Wonderland be spread before him.
     "Peanut-th! Peanut-t-th! Th-tubby, Noothanth--I got peanut-t-th." The youngster was nearing the spot where I stood, still unnoticed. I suppose he suffered a bit of a shock when I brought him to an abrupt halt.
     "Hello there!" I called.
     His feet stirred up the leaves of the trail as he applied the brakes. He looked up. Had one of those trees spoken to him?
     "How are you, young feller?" I went on, his eyes now finding me.
     "Oh-h-h-h!" he said, probably both relieved and disappointed to find that this greeting came from anything so prosaic as a human being. Then he took a second look, his eyes grew wide with excitement, and his mouth opened

a little. I wondered if there was a fairy standing behind me to cause all this emotion.
     "You're--you're--Tham Cammel, huh?" He could hardly get the words out.
     "Why, yes, I am Sam Campbell," I said, wondering whether in view of his wild-eyed attitude I ought to be proud or ashamed of the fact.
     "Yes--you're Tham Cammel."
     I was glad he agreed. "But who are you?" I asked, walking forward and extending my hand. He laid his hand in mine, thumb and all, co-operated with me in just one shake, and then drew away.
     "Don't you know my name?" he asked, looking a little disappointed.
     I was embarrassed. "No, it doesn't come to my mind right off. You know," I assumed a confidential tone, "I have a terrible time remembering names. Sometimes I forget my own."
     "Your name is Tham Cammel," he volunteered.
    "Yes, I know. But I can't recall yours. Now where did we know each other."
     "At my th-chool!" he said, with a disarming smile.
     "Yes, but what school is that?"
     "Don't you know my th-chool's name either?" He was quite disgusted by this time.
     "Well, you see I go to lots of schools," I said lamely. "I think I remember though. I showed pictures at your school, didn't I?"
     Of course I had shown pictures at hundreds of schools

during recent months, so this was a fairly safe assumption. However, the words delighted him. He laughed in a funny little way that I learned later was quite characteristic. It began with a whe-e-e and ended with a hick, and denoted something had happened that was extremely pleasing.
     "Now you know, I gueth, huh?" He was pleased.
     "Yes, but I haven't thought of the name of the school as yet. Just what was it?" I furroughed my eyebrows.
     My little lad had become suddenly preoccupied. His eyes sparkled under the glow of some exciting internal vision. A laugh started deep down inside and then broke out almost violently. "Ho, ho, ho!" He pointed his finger at me accusingly. "Oh, Th-tinkey! Th-tinkey!"
     This could have been mistaken for discourtesy, but it was not so intended. He wasn't calling me "Stinkey." Rather were his words and his laugh rising from a recollection in which I was beginning to share. It was of a huge auditorium in an old school, located in a poor and crowded district of a Midwestern city. I had come there to show motion pictures of our Sanctuary animals. As I stood on the platform making some introductory remarks, the audience of youngsters burst out in loud laughter. I hadn't said anything funny and I looked around to see if I were sharing the stage with other performers. I was! Out from the wings came three boys of about the ten year notch--and trotting along with them, led by a leash, was a real live skunk!
     The joke had long been planned. During a number of

such visits I had been telling these children of my forest friends. Now they had one to show me. While the audience continued to reel with laughter, I met "Stinkey" face to face. The little animal was the loved pet of the boy who led him. Stinkey had been deodorized, properly bathed and perfumed for this occasion, and I found him a most appealing creature.
     It took many minutes for the pupils to calm down so that my lecture could continue.
     I remembered the name of the school now. How could one ever forget it after such an experience? It is just as well to withhold it here lest the incident related above embarrass the faculty. But I said the name correctly to the boy in the forest that day, much to his delight.
     "Yeth!" he said, giving his funny little laugh. "Now, what-th my name?"
     He looked all ready to be disappointed if I failed. There were eleven hundred students in the auditorium that time, and I was supposed to know his name!
     Now I was finding something familiar about his little face. The experience at the school was becoming clearer. After the program a number of autograph seekers had come to me. Yes, one was a talkative little fellow who lisped! His all-too-fertile imagination had been stirred by what he saw, by thoughts of the great forest and the animals.
     "I wuth in a jungle wunth," he had shouted at me over the din of those requesting autographs.

     "Were you?" I had found a chance to say. "Where was it?"
     "Oh, a long long way off," he said with a gesture indicating it was much too far for me to comprehend.
     "How far?" I called, now determined to know of this remote country.
     "'Way, 'way off," he said, pointing more up than in any particular direction, and then he added a description calculated to floor me. "It wuth ten mileth from Chicago."
     "Amazing!" I commented. "What did you see there?"
     "Oh, I heard a big noith one night," he began, his eyes widening. "I heard a big noith one night--" He stopped; the old imagination just wasn't functioning fast enough.
     "Did you go out to see what it was?" I asked, determined that I wasn't going to be cheated out of this story. One can never tell what will happen ten miles from Chicago!
     "Oh, yeth," he said, relieved to have thought of something. "I went out, and what do you think it wuth?"
     "I don't know, what wuth it?" My own tongue was getting tangled.
     "You gueth."
     "I don't want to guess, you tell me."
     "Well." He drew in a deep breath as if it were going to take a lot of power even to speak of this fearful experience. "Well--there wuth a wildcat!"

     Amazing! Inconceivable! "What was the wildcat doing?" I asked.
     The little fellow's eyes were almost popping out by this time, and he was flushed with excitement. "There wuth that wildcat, and he wuth, he wuth--" The story wasn't coming out so well, but suddenly he caught the theme. "He wuth scrachin' my eyeth out!" he declared as he looked around to see how many would faint at this account of jungle savagery.
     "That is a mighty wonderful experience," I was saying to him, as the teachers turned their heads away to hide their snickers. "I'm glad you told me." The youngster was all wound up now, and I am sure there was another terrific adventure about to be related--maybe even farther from Chicago. But I headed him off.
     "What is your name," I asked.
     "Huh?"
     "What is your name?"
     "Oh--Daddy call-th me ‘Bub.'"
     "But you have another name, what else does he call you?"
     "Oh--he call-th me 'Hi-Bub.'"
     That was all I got. The situation was relieved as a teacher took him by the hand and led him away. I called after him, "Good-by, Hi-Bub," and "Good-by, Tham Cammel," he called back. I had not seen him since, but there was no doubt of it. This was Hi-Bub standing before me on the trail at my Sanctuary!

     "Ho! Ho!" I put my arm about his shoulder. "I knew you all the time--Hi-Bub!"
     He gave his laugh, starting with a whee-e-e and ending with a hick.
     It was fine to be remembered.
     "But how did you come here?" I asked. "The nearest cabin down that trail is about a mile away. Where did you come from?"
     After a lot of lisping, questions and counter-questions, I got his story. His mother and daddy had heard little else from him except northwoods--morning, noon and night. He wanted to go there. He wanted to see "Tham Cammel." Then there was something which his little talk did not make clear to me. But I gathered his daddy had to go where there were "thunshine and quiet." So it seemed that partly because of Hi-Bub's persistent enthusiasm and partly because of his daddy, they came north. They had found a cabin for rent at the far end of Friendship Trail. Someone had told them that the trail led to our Sanctuary. So--Bub had followed it.
     "Then you weren't afraid to go through the woods alone, were you, Hi-Bub?" I commented.
     "No, you thaid nothing in the woodth would hurt me," he answered.
     Yes, I had said that--and I was glad to find it had made such an impression.
     "Well, nothing will hurt you," I agreed. "And you knew too that you wouldn't get lost?"

     "Yeth, you thaid to thtay on a trail and we wouldn't get lotht."
     I had said that too, though I didn't know that one of those little fellows was going to put my advice to a test so soon.
     "Well, all right, Bub, you made it. When you go home I want to walk with you and see that you do follow the trail properly. Now what do you want to do?"
     "I got peanut-th." Bub waved the paper bag. "And I want to feed Th-tubby and Noothanth. What-th that?"
     He pointed excitedly toward one of the logs I had been sawing.
     "Why, that is Stubby now," I said. "You may feed him if--" But Bub was way ahead of me. He had taken a peanut from the bag, and before I could stop him he ran toward Stubby yelling, "Look, Th-tubby, I got peanut-th. Come on, Th-tubby!" Stubby didn't come on. In fact, his reaction was quite the reverse. Bub's enthusiastic approach frightened the creature until in its hurried flight it almost left its striped hide behind. Bub met with calamity too. He stubbed his toe and fell flat, his bag opening and scattering peanuts far and wide.
     There were no tears. Bub was too much of a man for that. We gathered up the peanuts, after which I gave him some lessons in approaching animals. It took some time to convince "Noothanth" and "Th-tubby" that all was well. The sun was low in the west before he finally had the thrill of these simple creatures coming up to

him and climbing all over him, while he dispensed his supply of peanuts.
     Then we went down the trail through the forest to his cabin together. I asked him to lead the way so that I could test his skill. He proved himself perfectly capable of trail travel. When I met his parents I found them concerned and about to start in search of him. They had thought the distance down the trail to be less than it was. I assured them that Bub was welcome to come back when he wished, but I recommended that they walk with him over the trail several times to make sure he became accustomed to it. This they did later. It was a good wide trail, well marked, and nothing could harm him if  he held to it.
     As I started away and they were entering the cabin, I heard the mother speak to Bub.
     "What did you see in the woods?" she asked.
     "Well, Th-tubby and Noothanth were there."
     "What else?"
     "Oh-h-h, there wuth a great big wildcat and-d-d-d--"
     The door closed behind them, and I never learned if Bub's eyes were scratched out again or not.

WOOD-GETTING was much improved the next day after my initial visit with Hi-Bub. I attribute my success mainly to the fact he didn't show up. By quitting time, little piles of freshly split logs were in evidence along the shore line,  marking spots where the right kind of trees had been found and given the saw and ax treatment. It was with a feeling of triumph that I brought the first boatload back that evening, and proudly offered Giny a gratefire made of personally selected, well-seasoned, hand-prepared wood.
     After dinner we took a short paddle about the lake, just "to give Buddie some exercise," as Giny said. A spell of springtime cold had crept in, and the forest was drawing shawls of fog about its shoulders  The landscape presented some fantastic effects. Over banks of mist, treetops appeared, seeming to be detached from the earth  Stars found little windows in the earth cloud through which to peek and coyly wink. Buddie seemed almost self-propelled in this mystic world. We had to give but light strokes with our paddles, and the canoe glided on endlessly. While in a thicket of fog there was no feeling of motion, yet suddenly we would emerge to find ourselves drifting along in velvety smoothness, the water not even ruffled at our passing.

     Loons must call on a night like that. Two of them did.  At first they were far separated, obviously resting on the surface of the water. Then came a call from one side of the lake, to be answered from the opposite shore. Unquestionably they were having fun, for there was actual joy in their voices. One of them confirmed a conviction I have long held, that loon play with echoes. This old fellow would give a brief, sharp cry. It went reverberating down the opposite shore line.  He was perfectly still--listening. His mate co-operated by keeping silent, too. When the last echo had sounded--and not until then--the creature called again. Once more he listened entranced, while the shores bounced his cry back and forth like a ping-pong ball. He did this at least a dozen times. Then, tired of this little game, the two birds broke out into that wild shrieking that sounds like a Zulu looks. They took to wing,  piercing the fog banks, once passing so low over our heads we could hear the soft whistle of their wings.
     We now returned to our island, which was just a little bundle of black forest, floating in an infinitude of mist and mystery. At the cabin we selected two books, moved favorite chairs before the fireplace, and prepared for an evening of hut happiness.  I kindled the fire with shreds of birchbark and slivers cut from a dry cedar log. The flames grew, fed by moderate sticks of pine from the hill at Point Trail's End, and gained body and permanence with sizable logs of hemlock and birch found along Friendship Trail. With both cedar and hemlock in there--

old gossips that they areold gossips that they are--it was a talkative fire. It popped and crackled and hissed and sometimes lisped like Hi-Bub.
     My book lay open and so far unread in my lap, while I practiced at Bub's fine art of imagining. It seemed to me the fire was reminiscing, and I was trying to gain from its babble the story of what the trees whose wood now burned had seen through the years as they stood stanchly among the legions of the forest. I glanced over at Giny.  Her book also rested in her lap, opened and unread. Maybe that is why books are such good friends. They are not easily offended.
     I noticed that Giny's eyes were dwelling on a toy birchbark canoe that lay on the fireplace mantel. The tiny craft had been modeled after the design of our beloved Buddie. Little smiles of pleasure played about her lips, and I saw she was living through some happy thoughts. I gazed at the toy for a few moments and soon I was having dreams too.
     "Giny," I said, breaking the silence
     She looked up startled, as if surprised to find that there was anyone else in the world. "Yes?"
     "I am discovering amazing powers within myself," I began, assuming an attitude of extreme importance.
     "What now?" She never knew what to expect.
     "Well--I am a mind reader--probably the greatest in the world!"
     She looked at me in a way that made me back up a little.
     "Well, I'll say the greatest in America."

     A crooked smile deflated me still more.
     "Now I am sure I am the greatest mind reader in Wisconsin!"
     ''That still is a lot of territory," she insisted.
     "Well, I am the most remarkable mind reader in this cabin--" and by way of being perfectly safe I added, "--on this side of the room."
     Her smile indicated there was no further argument. "What is all this about?" she asked.
     "Simply this. I know just what you are thinking right now, and I can prove it."
     She awaited the proof.
     "You were thinking of Buddie!" I said.
     She nodded and smiled. I closed my eyes and clustered the fingers of one hand against my forehead as if I were entering some sort of trance.
     "You were thinking of a young man too--tall, handsome, with light curly hair. You call him Sandy--but wait, there is more to his name. It is a funny name. Now I get it. His name Is Sandy the Squoip!"
     Giny laughed. "Simply amazing!" she said. "Please go on."
     I was becoming enthusiastic now. "And you were thinking of a lake. let's see, now, it is a strange kind of lake. You have never seen it. You don't know where it is. Yet you dwell in fancy among its charms and beauties. You picture animals there, and wilderness and solitude. Why, you have even named this fancied place! It is Sanctuary Lake!"

     "I am simply dumfounded!" said Giny. "Where have you been hiding this remarkable gift all these years? What else was I thinking?"
     I had to pause a moment to get deeper in my trance, and besides I had to fish around for ideas.
     "This man Sandy the Squoip you expect to come here soon. Once you promised him that we would go with him and Buddie in search of Sanctuary Lake. Now you wonder if it could be done while he is here this coming visit. You wonder if Buddie would be equal to such a thing. You don't know how it would he possible to make such a trip, but you wish it could be done. You don't even know where we would get the gas to run our car up into the far north. You believe we would have no right to put that wear on our tires. You know the ration board doesn't approve of using cars merely for pleasure."
     "And now," Giny broke into my trance sharply, "I am a mind reader. You have been thinking those same things, and you aren't reading my mind, you are exposing your own thoughts. You want to go searching for Sanctuary Lake when Squoip gets here."
     Then she asked the question that took the life out of our little illusion.
     "Is there--is there any way it could be done?"
     I put some more wood on the fire and became more practical. "I can't see how it could be possible," I said, disliking my own words.
     We picked up and read our friendly, patient books.

THERE were handicaps aplenty in my wood-cutting the next day. I was working hard at extricating a fine-looking log from a tangled pile of brush, when Salt and Pepper, the porcupines, showed up. Pepper, always the shy one, scouted around the wood and the sawbuck for a few minutes, then disappeared into the forest. Not so with Salt. He had the reputation of being a pest, and he made sure I didn't forget it. Suddenly he developed a passionate love for that sawbuck. It was the most important spot in the world to him that moment. I couldn't begin to use the saw without the risk of taking a leg off of him. When I carried him away, he squealed resentfully--and got back faster than I did. Once he strayed off a few feet to sniff around the pieces of newly cut wood. I thought maybe he was through bothering me, so I went into the brush and got a section of log that was about all I could lift. I came back with it on my shoulder, my muscles aching under the load, and walked up wanting to deposit the log in position for sawing. Salt made a dash for the sawbuck and climbed upon it. Steadying the log on my overburdened shoulder with one hand, I picked him up with the other and put him on the ground. I tried to put the log in place before he could climb back,

but it was too heavy to move quickly. Salt got right where the log ought to be. I pleaded with him, I coaxed, I threatened, but he stayed on, grunting softly about how contented he was. Then I conceived a plan that worked. Using my last bit of strength I reached down with one hand, picked him up, and swung him on top of the log that was now burrowing right into my shoulder. Then I put the whole burden, Salt and the log, on the sawbuck--and sat down to recover from my exertion, if possible.
     Salt finally tired of his pestering, though not nearly so soon as I had. However, he could do something about it, whereas I couldn't. He sauntered off to a tree, climbed to a comfortable crotch and went fast asleep.
     I actually tiptoed around. The last thing in the world I wanted to do right then was awaken that porcupine. If he should outdo Rip Van Winkle's record, it would be all right with me.
     For a few minutes I had a chance to work, but the opportunity didn't last long. Far back in the forest I heard a voice calling. I couldn't make out a word, and yet I knew full well what was being said.
     "Peanut-th! Peanut-th! Th-tubby and Noothanth--I got peanut-th!"
     Hi-Bub was coming! I sawed at double time and swung the ax until I looked something like a windmill, but I couldn't get much done before he arrived. When he was approaching I went to meet him a little way down the trail, to ask his co-operation.

     "Hi-Bub!" I said.
     "Hello, Tham Cammel!" he answered, with his own original little laugh. "I got peanut-th."
     "I see you have. Stubby and Nuisance will be glad to get them. Did you have any trouble following the trail?"
     "Nope!" said Bub, with a shake of the head, "exthept I thaw a bear."
     It could be--and on the other hand this might be the beginning of another jungle tale.
     "A big bear?" I asked, and it was the wrong question.
     "Oh-o-o!" said Bub, looking around for something to compare it to. "It wath bigger'n  a cow!" His excitement grew. "It wuth a mama bear and th-he had thix cub-th!"
     "Why didn't you make it five, Bub? It would be easier for you to say."
     "Five, then," said Bub. Anything to be obliging!
     A marvelous story unfolded, punctuated by laughs and lisps. It seems that these bear cubs had been bad, so the mother bear picked them up one at a time and administered a spanking. Hi-Bub had stood there and watched it all. How grand it is to be an eyewitness to such things, for there is just no question of the authenticity of such an experience when you have seen it with your own eyes, the way Hi-Bub had. I said as much to him, but wished I hadn't for he started in to say "authenticity" and I was afraid he wouldn't last through it.
     "But the bears didn't frighten you and they didn't hurt you, did they, Bub?" I said, hoping to bring the story to

an end with the moral that animals won't harm you if you don't harm them.
     Bub headed off the point "Yeth!" he declared, his face taking on that wildcat-scratching-my-eye-out look.

     "Did they eat you up, Bub?" I asked anxiously.
     "No!" And then incredulously, "Don't you thee me here?"
     "Oh, I'm sorry. How did you escape?"
     It took a minute to figure this out, but he found an answer. Believe it or not, Inky, my old porcupine, whom Hi-Bub had seen in pictures and of whom he had read in a book, showed up that very moment and chased the

bears away! Most extraordinary, I know--but then Inky is a very unusual porcupine.
     "Inky wath thwell," went on Bub, enthusiastically-- "He thtayed with me, walked all the way--I gueth to thee I didn't get lotht."
     "I suppose he carried your bag of peanuts for you, didn't he?" I suggested, hoping to make some contribution to this adventure.
     Hi-Bub looked at me reproachfully. "Huh-uh. I gueth you jutht made that up!"
     I gave up!
     Under request for the utmost silence, I led Hi-Bub over to the tree where Salt was snoozing, and pointed out the homely little bundle of quills and hair.
     "What--?" asked Bub.
     "It is Salt, the porcupine, Bub. You know, like Inky that you--er--met on the trail today."
     Bub stared long and curiously, suggesting the idea that he had never seen a porcupine before.
     "Will he come down?" he asked.
     "Yes, but we don't want him now. He gets in my way when I am working. I want you to be as quiet as you can, so you don't awaken him. Now suppose you go down the trail a way and call Stubby and Nuisance. Don't call loud so you wake up Salt, just quiet-like."
     The appeal seemed to be effective at first. Bub looked at Salt for a few minutes, then carefully picked his steps and made off a little way down the trail. I heard him call in subdued tones for the chipmunk and squirrel, and

knew by his words of greeting that they had responded. I had got fairly into the wood-cutting when suddenly I discovered Bub back again, right under Salt's bedroom tree.
     "Ith he awake yet?" he said in a whisper that was a little louder than a shout.
     "No. Sh-h-h-h! Don't stir him up, he'll bother the life out of me."
     Bub looked up at the slumbering porcupine, and suddenly developed a political cough.
     "A-hem!" he went, vehemently, looking up to see if the sound had any effect.
     "A-hem! a-hem!" he continued, with such vigor that a real cough resulted. Still Salt slept on. Then Bub started to sing. It was the "Star Spangled Banner," so I couldn't ask him to stop. Patriotically, I stopped my work and stood at attention. This was a losing battle for me anyway. Surely Bub's solo was far from a slumber song. About the place where he began to ask if the "Thtar Thpangled Ba-an-er-er thtill waveth," Salt was moving about. The porky looked down drowsily at the soloist.
     "Oh-h-h! Heth awake!" Bub discovered innocently. If Salt hadn't awakened after what went on, I would have been puzzled as to his real condition.
     Salt came slowly down the tree, Bub backing away, not sure whether or not he was glad the nap was over.
     "He won't hurt you, Bub," I assured him. "He's just like Inky, and Inky didn't hurt you."
     Bub gave me a quick glance and then looked hack at the oncoming Salt. He wasn't so certain about these real

animals. "Maginary" ones were better in some ways. He could make them do as he wished. And even if one did start to harm him, all he had to do was imagine something to make him stop, such as having a porcupine come up at the right moment to chase a bear away.
     "Give him a peanut, Bub," I said. "Salt loves peanuts, only you have to shell them for him."
     Bub timidly prepared a peanut and offered it, though the boy looked as if he were all ready for a hundred- yard dash. Salt took the food in his usual docile way. A second peanut erased more of the fear in each of them. A third one furthered the job. By the time a dozen had been fed, Salt the porcupine was standing right at the boy's feet reaching up anxiously for more donations, and Bub was laughing delightedly. It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
     "He'th thwell!" commented my young friend. And apparently Salt reciprocated this newborn devotion.
     I tried to renew my work, but without the least hope of success. Bub told me that his parents had instructed him to help "Tham Cammel" cut wood. Why do parents do such things? Between Bub and Salt I couldn't go anywhere or do anything without getting stuck on a porcupine quill or bumping into a boy. Bub's help consisted principally of feeding Salt, though Stubby and Nuisance came in for a little attention. The discouraging angle from my viewpoint was that all of them, Bub included, liked to be right on the sawbuck. I didn't dare use the ax, for whenever I raised it to strike, right where I wanted

to hit would appear a chipmunk, a squirrel, a porcupine or a boy. During Hi-Bub's whole afternoon of "helping me" he carried just one piece of wood down to the boat--and he dropped that on my toe!
     I started Bub home early by saying that Inky would be waiting for him. He went away assuring me that he would come back tomorrow. Even if he didn't I wasn't to worry, because he'd be sure to come the next day.

     "I want to meet Hi-Bub," said Giny as we sat at dinner and I gave her a report of the day's adventure. "You are having all the fun."
     "I predict you will have plenty of opportunity," I assured her, with a look that told my feelings more than did my words.
     We are bluffers though, we adults. We pretend we are pestered, bothered beyond measure, tried to the limit of endurance by the little ones who in their innocence boss us so easily. But woe be to anyone who would deprive us of our blessed nuisance! It is our privilege to be annoyed and to love it Our grumblings are a part of our joy. In our hearts is the truth Longfellow put in words:

JUNE days floated by like lovely leaflets on the stream of time. July was in the making. The north country was vibrant with humming, buzzing, singing life.
     At the Sanctuary, we had got in our wood in spite of all the obstacles Hi-Bub, Salt, Pepper, Stubby, Nuisance, mosquitoes and the weather could provide.
     Many of the strange impulses of forest creatures were showing up in the little animals living on our island. The urge to branch out and establish an individual niche in the world had seized our young red squirrels on the island. Once the advice given our youth was "Go west, young man, go west." Nature simply says go--go east, west, north, or south--but go! Nature abhors the congregating of her creatures. She fights against the evils of overpopulation. In the hearts of her children she plants an irresistible instinct for spreading, searching out new lands, seeking, ever seeking what lies just beyond the horizon.
     Sometimes this urge to go plays strange little tricks among the wild folk. They are known to leave a land of plenty and dwell where living is not so good. Yet, this is the lesser of two evils. Nothing else matches the adverse effects of too many dwelling in one area. Better a sparse

diet where there is living room. Hence distance is rendered magnetic to the young wild heart. There are, of course, many influences at work in the minds of animals of which we know nothing. They go forth seeking new lands and new homes with such decision and purpose that it seems as if they knew before they started just the log, the tree, the hole in the ground, the cave or the nesting spot in which each would settle.
     However, there is something intensely human in the hankering they have for "the old home town." Frequently we see them return in a visiting sort of way, to the "scenes of their childhood." Witness the actions of Salt and Pepper, or old Inky, the porcupines. Their visits have become less and less frequent, yet for a good portion of their lives they have remembered our Sanctuary and returned periodically. So it was with Rack and Ruin, the raccoons we raised a few years previously. They still return to us, bringing with them generation after generation of offspring. This has been a common experience with all our animal friends.
     Still-Mo, the double-crossing red squirrel, moved out of our attic and established herself in a hollow cedar tree near the boathouse. Probably her change of address was upon the insistence of her thoroughly impudent and disrespectful offspring More-Mo. This pugnacious little scamp took a fancy to our attic, and large as it was he had no notion of sharing it He jabbered and chattered, scolded and chased the other members of his family until they gave up their interest in the old homestead and moved

elsewhere. Two-Mo moved down to the point near our island campfire site, and took up abode in an old oak tree which has served as a housing project for many squirrels during the years. No-Mo left the island. I discovered him on the mainland one day while I was sawing wood. He was having quite a run-in with Nuisance. Then for a long time we saw nothing of him.
     There were newcomers on our island. We had bats--not in our belfry, but in our boathouse. The odd creatures had found a place where the roofing paper was raised ever so little, yet enough to give them a home. They can fit and be happy in the tiniest places. We watched them often in early evenings as they executed their miraculous flights while gathering in great quantities of mosquitoes and gnats. People do not like bats very well, and for that reason I have been advised not to write about them. But I find our human likes and dislikes are so often founded on fallacies, superstitions and ignorance that I have a tendency always to defend a condemned creature. Our failure to understand the true nature of things has put so many creatures on the undesirable list that if all were destroyed of which people do not approve, there would be little wild life left There are few living things whose purpose in the great scheme cannot be clearly seen if we get rid of our fears and think wisely.
     Bats do not get in your hair, as the popular notion goes. It is the last place in the world they would want to get, and they are adept at missing such entanglement. The bat has a little radar system all his own. Experiments indi-

cate that such remarkable equipment keeps him from bumping into all the things he could easily hit in his night flying. He is not blind, as some people think. His eyes are small, and apparently he depends on them very little, but he has some. His so-called radar equipment makes use of sound waves. He emits high-pitched squeaks as he flies along so erratically. These faint sounds echo back to him from anything in his path, whether it be a thread or a barn, and he changes his course instantly to miss the object.
     No doubt this sensitive hearing ability enables him to hear the hum of insects, and directs him in capturing them. His appetite for mosquitoes is so tremendous that a colony of bats will make a noticeable difference in the numbers of these insect pests. One American city is said to have rid itself largely of mosquitoes by introducing an abundance of bats into the region. Yet, it is well not to encourage bats to settle about a dwelling. We do not want them in our house. They do introduce bugs, though not the bed bug as some say. It is a bat bug, which has no interest in human beings, but of course would be unpleasant to have around.
     We watched our colony of bats with interest One day we found one clinging to a post in the boathouse. Close examination showed it to be a mother bat carrying a young one. There just couldn't have been a cuter sight than that. The little fellow was cuddled up to the mother's breast, both looking like very tiny monkeys with wings.
     The Sausage family, our over-population of wood-

chucks, was staying on the island so far. They showed no tendency to spread out, but individual characteristics were becoming more plain. Link Sausage, the mother, was forcing the youngsters to depend on themselves. Self-sufficiency is a law for them, just as it is for us.
     Thuringer seemed to take his schooling best.  He was a quiet, studious type of creature who mixed little in family quarrels, and went about his way alone. To a degree Bratwurst got over the irritable disposition he first displayed. In fact, he became so obedient and docile we rather wished we hadn't chosen such an uncomplimentary name. Salami was still the jitterbug and getting worse. Ground hogs are serious-minded as a rule, but Salami would rather play than eat. She didn't want to play alone either.  Much to their discomfiture, she was always trying to get her brothers to leave their food and play with her. She made herself most unpopular. Wiener was sort of a shy little fellow and often missing in the family circle.
     Only on three occasions did we see all six of the young together. They certainly presented an amusing picture.
     A woodchuck sits upright, like a prairie dog, and holds his food in his front feet. Thus he can look around for approaching danger while he nibbles away. Giny and I will long remember the way our Sausage family looked one morning when we put out a great quantity of carrots. There was so much food that for a few moments they forgot to fight.  Patty the runt and O. Bologna the smart alec sat side by side looking something like Mutt and Jeff. It wasn't often that they were so peaceful. Some-

times I think Patty just loved the attention of being beaten by O. Bologna. He was always near the big brother, and regularly got into trouble. But now, for the moment, they were preoccupied with this luscious food. We have noticed that when they sit in a group this way, they all face different directions. No doubt this is so that they can watch more thoroughly for enemies. Such alertness was in evidence that day when the six of them were feasting on carrots.
     Even as we watched them, laughing at their frantic and funny way of chewing, one of them gave a shrill whistle. The others dropped their carrots. Everyone was on the alert. All action was suspended for just an instant and then the same one repeated his warning. From overhead came the excited cry of More-Mo. Still- Mo echoed it from a distant tree. Something unusual was afoot on the island. Several woodchucks then joined in their sharp whistle of alarm--and that was enough. There was a fierce scramble for safety. Four of them tried to go in one hole at the same time! They squealed and scratched, and in some miraculous way managed to vanish into their underground homes.
     Giny and I waited and watched. The red squirrels increased their scolding. Whoever the visitor was, he certainly was unwelcome from their viewpoint. Soon we saw a little motion in the brush, as something touched the bushes. Then came a sight that brought from us exclamations of both admiration and pity. A very young raccoon walked into full view. To see such a creature in full

daylight was unusual in itself, but there was even more to explain about this little fellow. His walk was very unsteady, as if from exhaustion or some other cause he was hardly able to take another step. When he stopped, held his nose up in the air and sniffed in true raccoon style, he swayed as if about to fall over. His fur was extremely light in color as is sometimes the case when an animal is undernourished. His eyes seemed to be sightless.
     "Oh, the poor little thing!" Giny exclaimed. "What is the matter with him? What is he doing here in the day- time? Do you suppose we can get some food to him?"
     It wouldn't be too easy. The tiny creature was fearful and sensitive to noises. When we moved our feet just a little he made a pitiful attempt to run, though his flight ended when he fell to the ground after taking about a dozen steps. Plainly the animal was in trouble and needed help.

     Giny warmed some milk, crumbled some bread into it and quietly placed it on the ground a few feet from where he still lay. We watched from our window to see what he would do. Apparently he caught the odor of the food. One halting step at a time, he approached the pan. His manner of eating suggested that something might be wrong with his mouth. I wondered if he might have got mixed up with a porcupine and had some quills imbedded in his tongue or nose.
     We never learned the nature of his trouble. He became an established member of the island colony. Giny named him Racket, presuming that he was from the lineage of Rack and Ruin. He made his home under our cabin. For days after his arrival, feeding and protecting this little thing was one of our main interests.
     The experience gave us much to think about. What had led this animal when ill and unable to care for himself in the forest to seek our island--the only place in the whole community where he would be safe from other creatures which might seek to destroy him, and where he would be cared for? How had he come? What had happened to his mother that she did not guard over him? Why did he trust us as he did increasingly as days went on?
     Some of these questions were answered by later experience; some of them never were. A deep mystery remained about Racket. All we could do for him was keep food available and protect him. We did this, and so added to our Sanctuary experiences a very precious chapter.

THE next letter we received from Sandy the Squoip was charged with so much enthusiasm and anticipation it would hardly stay in the envelope. Sandy was coming to the States! He didn't know when he would land, and couldn't have told us if he did know--but he was coming. He was still in the hospital when he wrote but he said, "They are sending me back to get rid of me. I am simply a blamed nuisance. Don't know what to do with myself, so I just get in everyone's hair. I am so healthy they don't want to let me out on the street, because I make everyone else look sick. No sense in my being here anyway and there never was. The damage was done to the jeep, not to me. I wrinkled up one of its fenders and it didn't even muss my hair."
     Sandy said he would have about sixty days' leave. He wanted to spend some of it with us, and the rest with his folks and friends in their northern Minnesota town. "Then we go on for the big show in Asia," he said. "Some of the boys think we have had enough, but I don't.  While there is a war going on, I want to be in it. I'll be ready if only I can get some of that good old northwoods air in my lungs, look at a sky that doesn't have a plane in it, and be free of crowds of people just for a little while.

I'll bet they put us in a slow old tub to go across the pond. Anything would seem slow to me when I am coming home. If I had Buddie here, I would start out now. By the way, do you still plan on finding Sanctuary Lake? I have been wondering if we might take a look around the canoe country during my furlough. Just an idea. Maybe it's all wet, but you can't blame a fellow for trying."
     Giny and I looked at each other as we read this part of the letter aloud. The idea certainly was persistent. It kept prodding us all the time, and was working at Sandy too.
     "Remember, we haven't any gas coupons for such a trip!" Giny insisted, following our usual routine.
     "Sandy would be allowed some," I suggested.
     "Our tires are rather thin," Giny went on in her practical way, "and the government does not want us to use cars for such purposes."
     "Yes, I know." I shook my head to dismiss the whole proposition. "Then Buddie is hardly equal to it. We couldn't just choose smooth waters up there, and there are rocks barely under the surface of the lakes that might poke their heads up through one of the canoes weak places. Anyway," I went on, satisfied that the impracticality of this ambition was established,     "constant handling of the old canoe on portages would simply tear it apart."
     "We could rent a canoe." Now Giny tried to insert a ray of hope.
     "Sandy wouldn't like that. I believe he would rather

stay here and use Buddie in a limited way than to travel in a strange canoe. You know how sentimental he is about such things."
     "Like ourselves!" Giny agreed. "All right, we won't count on it."
     Sandy concluded his letter with the promise to wire us as soon as he had landed and could make definite plans.

     I walked down to the canoe rack where Buddie lay covered with a canvas. I inspected the hull carefully for signs of weakness. The places I had fixed were holding well. I turned the canoe upright, and tested the rails. My mind was filled with memories and dreams. I pictured the portage from Sunday Lake into Meadow Lake, the campsite at the far end of Louisa--portages, streams, rapids and still more portages. Of all the joys the forest has offered me, canoe travel rates supreme. It gives the thrill of wilderness, the spice of variety, a challenge to strength and initiative, the poetic beauty of camp life.
     Buddie in its best days was a fine canoe for such adventure. I pictured where the packsacks would fit. Buddie was seventeen feet long and of wide beam; it could carry the three of us and our supplies. Of course, every canoe traveler knows that the success of such a trip depends largely on the strength and vitality of his canoe. It is rather a serious predicament to be in to have the canoe itself go wrong in some remote spot in the Canadian canoe country. The country is of such nature that there is no other way to travel, except by plane.

     Skeptically I fastened to Buddie the yoke by which it is carried. This would be quite a test, for the yoke clamps to the railings, placing upon them a great strain. I lifted the canoe to my shoulders and walked a few feet There were sounds of stress, but not as bad as I had expected. It might possibly get by, I thought. But of course, there were the gas problem and the tires.

HI-BUB caused me to live in a quandary. For nearly a week we heard nothing of him. At first I was afraid he would come, then I was afraid he wouldn't. There were lots of things to be done and he was anything but a big help. However, my thoughts held to that lisp of his, his keen childish interest in the world about him, his three-shift imagination, his smile that rolled back his plump cheeks, and the twinkle in his eyes--and I began to feel that looking on such things was more important than doing a lot of chores. Then, too, Giny had not met him as yet, a deficit in experience that was charged directly against me.
     One warm, still morning I was near the boathouse working at the endless job of repairing Buddie. A new break in the veneer had occurred, and although it was small it had to be fixed before it grew worse.
     Sound carried well that morning. From away out to the west I could hear crows arguing. Blue jays gossiped incessantly. Then there came a thin little voice, plainly audible, from the nearest point on the mainland. I stopped my work, chuckled a little, and then listened.  "Peanut-th!" came the cry. "Peanut-th!"

     I slipped along the shore line and peered through some brush in the direction from which the sound had come. There stood Hi-Bub crying his wares. Stubby and Nuisance were being called--but be wasn't really looking for them He was directing his voice right toward our island.
     "Peanut-th! Peanut-th!" he called, so loudly his voice broke. Obviously Bub wanted some attention.
     I stepped into the open. "Hi, Bub!" I greeted him.
     "What?"
     "I said 'Hi, Bub.' "
     "Can't hear," he insisted.
     "I said hello. You know, 'Hello!'"
     "Ith Th-tubby over there?" he asked, ignoring my greeting.
     Then followed a conversational confusion that probably resembled the jabbering at the Tower of Babel. We both talked at once, our whats clashed with our statements, and echoes mixed into everything said. We were getting nowhere in this long-distance communication.  Hi-Bub couldn't understand a thing I said--at least not until I shouted, "Do you want to come over?"
     "Huh?" he asked, listening for the first time.
     "Do you want to come over to the island?"
     "Oh, I don't care." Which was the embarrassed boy's way of saying, "Hurrah, that is what I have been working for!"
     I took a rowboat and went over to get the young man, bag of peanuts, lisps, enthusiasm, imagination and all. It

was high adventure for him, this trip in a boat, though he was careful not to let it seem too important or unusual. He had been in boats "lot-th of time-th!" he insisted. His daddy, who was a very remarkable person, I was coming to understand, had a submarine--just think of that! I thought, here we go again.
     "Did you bring your submarine up here?" I asked, hoping to find out if the ship were fabricated entirely out of imagination, or if it were an inflated toy.
     "No-o-o-o!" Bub was highly disgusted. Why that submarine was bigger'n this lake. Where was it? Why it was in the ocean, of course, right where his daddy had left it. Daddy, it seems, had been away off "after the Japth," and he had "Th-hot 'em all to pietheth." Apparently all the bullets hadn't gone one way and so Daddy was no longer of any use to the Navy. He had come home to stay. But I realized this was not a tall tale. Daddy had a submarine, at least an interest in one that was real and tangible.
     We were nearing the island now, and Bub was looking about excitedly. He expected the place to be crawling with animals like some glorified zoo. I explained to him that our wildwood friends come at different times, some in the day, some in the night, that they are too bu