kinder
sp'ilt me for a dog.' All my fault, warn't it, George?" patting his head.
(Only Jonathan would call a dog George.)

Here the dog would look up out of one eye as he spoke,--he hadn't
forgotten the bear-trap, and never intended to let Jonathan forget it
either. Then Jonathan would admire ruefully the end of the stump, stroking
the dog all the while with his big, hairy, paddle-like hands, George
rooting his head under the flap of the party-colored waistcoat.

One night, I remember, we had waited supper,--the wife and I,--we were
obliged to wait, the trout being in Jonathan's creel,--when Jonathan
walked in, looking tired and worried.

"Hez George come home, Marthy?" he asked, resting his long bamboo rod
against the porch rail and handing the creel of trout to the wife. "No?
Wall, I'm beat ef thet ain't cur'us. Guess I got ter look him up." And he
disappeared hurriedly into the darkening forest, his anxious, whistling
call growing fainter and fainter as he was lost in its depths. Marthy was
not uneasy,--not about the dog; it was the supper that troubled her. She
knew Jonathan's ways, and she knew George. This was a favorite trick of
the dog's,--this of losing Jonathan.

The trout were about burnt to a crisp and the corn-bread stone cold when
Jonathan came trudging back, George in his arms,--a limp, soggy, half-dead
dog, apparently. Marthy said nothing. It was an old story. Half the time
Jonathan carried him home.

"Supper's ready," she said quietly, and we went in.

George slid out of Jonathan's arms, smelt about for a soft plank, and fell
in a heap on the porch, his chin on his paws, his mean little eyes
watching lazily,--speaking to nobody, noticing nobody, sulking all to
himself. There he stayed until he caught a whiff of the fragrant, pungent
odor of fried trout. Then he cocked one eye and lifted an ear. He must not
carry things too far. Next, I heard a single thump of his six-inch tail.
George was beginning to get pleased; he always did when there were things
to eat.

All this time Jonathan, tired out, sat in his big splint chair at the
supper-table. He had been thrashing the brook since daylight,--over his
knees sometimes. I could still see the high-water mark on his patched
trousers. Another whiff of the frying-pan, and George got up. He dared not
poke his nose into Marthy's lap,--there were too many chunks of wood
within easy reach of her hand. So he sidled up to Jonathan, rubbing his
nose against his