elds--she's got white hair, she has,
and you like white hair, you do. I despise her; I despise her so much
that I almost choke."

"Why, now, Carrie, what makes you despise Sylvia Fields?"

"I don't know; I don't know why I despise her, but I do. I despise her
with all my might and soul and body. And I tell you, Mr. John Logan,
that"--here the lips begin to quiver, and she is about to burst into
tears--"I tell you, Mr. John Logan, that I do hope she likes ripe
bananas; and I do hope that if she does like ripe bananas, that when
bananas come to camp this fall, that she will take a ripe banana and try
for to suck it; and I do hope she will suck a ripe banana down her
throat, and get choked to death on it, I do."

"Oh, Carrie, this is very wicked!" cries John Logan, reproachfully, "and
I must leave you if you talk that way. Good-bye," and the man shoulders
his gun and again turns away.

"Well, do you think red hair is the ugliest thing in the world? Do you?
Do you now?"

"Carrie, don't you know I love the beautiful, red woods of autumn?"

It is the May-day of the maiden's life; the May shower is over again,
and the girl lifts her beautiful face, and says lightly, almost laughing
through her tears,

"And, oh, you did like the red bush, didn't you, Mr. John Logan? And,
oh, you did say that Moses saw the face of God in the burning bush,
didn't you, Mr. John Logan?"

"I want you to tell me a story, I do," interposes Stumps. The boy had
stood there a long time, first on one foot, then on the other, swinging
his squirrel, pouting out his mouth, and waiting.

"Yes, tell us a story," urges Carrie.

"Oh, yes, tell us a story about a coon--no, about a panther--no, a bear.
Oh, yes, about a bear! about a bear!" cries the boy, "about a bear!"

"Poor, half-wild children!" sighs John Logan. "Nothing to divert them,
their little minds go out, curiously seeking something new and strange,
just, I fancy as older and abler people's do in larger ways. Yes, I will
tell you a story about a bear. And let us sit down; my long walk has
tired my legs;" and he looks about for a resting place.

"Oh, here, this mossy log!" cries Stumps; "it's as soft as silk. You
will sit there, and I here, and sister there."

John Logan leans his gun against a tree, hanging his pouch on the gun.

"Yes, I will sit here--and you, Carrie?"

"Here. Oh, John Logan, I just fit in."

One of Logan's arms falls loosely around Carrie, the other more loosely
a