t you think it's high time you changed your habits?" ask Joe,
laughing. "And you couldn't have a better opportunity--your own house
smashed flat; yourself helpless; and we two all prepared to lug you off
whether you like it or not."

"Well," said Peter, smiling at Joe's threat, "then I suppose I may as
well give in. You're very kind, though, boys," he added, seriously, "and
I'm very glad indeed to accept your offer."

"Then let us pitch in at once and start downward," said Joe. "Do you
think you could walk with help?"

"I doubt it; but I'll have a try."

It was no use, though. With one arm over Joe's shoulder and the other
over mine he essayed to walk, but the attempt was a failure. His right
leg dragged helplessly behind; he could not take a step.

"We've got to think of some other way," said Joe, as Peter once more
stretched himself at full length upon the ground. "Can we----"

But here he was interrupted.

All this time, Sox, with rare backwardness, had remained perched upon
his tree-root, looking on and listening, but at this moment down he
flew, alighted upon the ground near Peter's head, made a complete
circuit of his master's prostrate form, then hopped up on his shoulder,
and having promenaded the whole length of his body from his neck to his
toes, he shook out his feathers and settled himself comfortably upon the
hermit's left foot.

We all supposed he intended to take a nap, but in another two seconds he
straightened up again, eyed each of us in turn, and, with an air of
having thought it all out and at last decided the matter beyond dispute,
he remarked in a tone of gentle resignation:

"John Brown's body."

Having delivered this well-considered opinion with becoming solemnity,
he threw back his head and laughed a rollicking laugh, as though he had
made the very best joke that ever was heard.

"You black heathen, Sox!" cried his master. "I believe you would laugh
at a funeral."

"Lies," said Sox, opening one eye and shutting it again; a remark which,
though it sounded very much as though intended as an insult to Peter,
was presumably but the continuation of his previous quotation.

"Get out, you old rascal!" cried the hermit, "shooing" away the bird
with his hat. "Your conversation is not desired just now." And as Sox
flew back to his perch, Peter continued: "How far down did you leave
your ponies, boys?"

"About a mile," I replied.

"Then I believe the best way will be for one of you to go