ou
want to! And, Kate, I really am going to buy a gun. Down on Spring, in
that sporting-goods house--you know, the one on the corner--they have
got the cutest rifles! And by the way, they had some of the best
looking outing suits in the window the other day. I'm going in there
when I come down in the morning."

"Let Fred advise you about the rifle before you buy. Fred's
tremendously clever about nature stuff, Marion. He'll know just what
you want. I think a gun will maybe be necessary. You know there are
bear--"

"Oh, good night!" cried Marion. But in the next breath she added, "I
wonder if there are any nice hunters after the bears!"

CHAPTER SEVEN

GUARDIAN OF THE FORESTS

In mid July the pines and spruces and firs have lost their pale green
fingertips which they wave to the world in spring, and have settled
down to the placid business of growing new cones that shall bear the
seed of future forests as stately as these. On the shadowed,
needle-carpeted slopes there is always a whispery kind of calm; the
calm of Nature moving quietly about her appointed tasks, without haste
and without uncertainty, untorn by doubts or fears or futile
questioning; like a broad-souled, deep-bosomed mother contentedly
rearing her young in a sheltered home where love abides in the peace
which passeth understanding.

Gray squirrels, sleek and bright-eyed and graceful always, lope over
the brown needles, intent upon some urgent business of their own.
Noisy little chipmunks sit up and nibble nervously at dainties they
have found, and flirt their tails and gossip, and scold the carping
bluejays that peer down from overhanging branches. Perhaps a hoot owl
in the hollow trees overhead opens amber eyes and blinks irritatedly
at the chattering, then wriggles his head farther down into his
feathers, stretches a leg and a wing and settles himself for another
nap.

Little streams go sliding down between banks of bright green grass,
and fuss over the mossy rocks that lie in their beds. Deer lift heads
often to listen and look and sniff the breeze between mouthfuls of the
tender twigs they love. Shambling, slack-jointed bears move shuffling
through the thickets, like the deer, lifting suspicious noses to test
frequently the wind, lest some enemy steal upon them unaware.

From his glass-walled eyrie, Jack Corey gazed down upon the wooded
slopes and dreamed of what they hid of beauty and menace and calm and
of loneliness. He saw them o