ts
wild instincts, but led by affection to become domestic. He drew the
water, cut the wood, none better. In the evening he played atrociously
his violin--none worse--bending his great white brow forward with the
wolf-glare in his eyes, swaying his shoulders with a fierce delight in
the subtle dissonances, the swaggering exactitude of time, the vulgar
rendition of the horrible tunes he played. And often he went into the
forest and gazed wondering through his liquid poet's eyes at occult
things. Above all, he worshipped Thorpe. And in turn the lumberman
accorded him a good-natured affection. He was as indispensable to Camp
One as the beagles.

And the beagles were most indispensable. No one could have got along
without them. In the course of events and natural selection they had
increased to eleven. At night they slept in the men's camp underneath or
very near the stove. By daylight in the morning they were clamoring at
the door. Never had they caught a hare. Never for a moment did their
hopes sink. The men used sometimes to amuse themselves by refusing
the requested exit. The little dogs agonized. They leaped and yelped,
falling over each other like a tangle of angleworms. Then finally, when
the door at last flung wide, they precipitated themselves eagerly and
silently through the opening. A few moments later a single yelp rose in
the direction of the swamp; the band took up the cry. From then until
dark the glade was musical with baying. At supper time they returned
straggling, their expression pleased, six inches of red tongue hanging
from the corners of their mouths, ravenously ready for supper.

Strangely enough the big white hares never left the swamp. Perhaps the
same one was never chased two days in succession. Or it is possible that
the quarry enjoyed the harmless game as much as did the little dogs.

Once only while the snow lasted was the hunt abandoned for a few days.
Wallace Carpenter announced his intention of joining forces with the
diminutive hounds.

"It's a shame, so it is, doggies!" he laughed at the tried pack. "We'll
get one to-morrow."

So he took his shotgun to the swamp, and after a half hour's wait,
succeeded in killing the hare. From that moment he was the hero of those
ecstacized canines. They tangled about him everywhere. He hardly dared
take a step for fear of crushing one of the open faces and expectant,
pleading eyes looking up at him. It grew to be a nuisance. Wallace
always claimed