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even though perhaps the frightened father did not, that in what this little girl had done she had meant him no harm, and, doglike, he had known it instinctively. This tale led Mr. Terhune to a discourse on the feeling which dogs, as a class, have for children. A collie will never attack a very little child, Mr. Terhune declared, no matter how badly he is maltreated, for he instinctively sees in this small, helpless little creature (perhaps in his own mind he thinks of the child as a puppy) a thing which he naturally should protect. “It is just the same as with human beings,” said Mr. Terhune, by way of illustration. “If a three-year-old child should hit you, you would n’t strike back, would you? But if I should, you ’d very soon do so, would n’t you?” I had to acknowledge that the example was an excellent one; but when I measured Mr. Terhune's six feet and more with my own five and some odd inches, I thought to myself that the characters in his illustration might have been more wisely chosen. In boyhood days, long before Mr. Terhune had ever written his first dog-story, he was a tireless reader of ST. NICHOLAS. Particularly he loved the let

they come as near being so as dumb animals can. Each year about the middle of December, the Terhune family begins to think about returning to New York. A week or so before the preparations are begun, the collies instinctively seem to sense that something is wrong; they become nervous, and an unhappy look steals into their eyes. What the explanation of it is, Mr. Terhune can not say. Perhaps they catch smatterings of talk about “New York” and “leaving Pompton Lakes.” Who knows but what they understand this much of the human tongue?

And a similar thing takes place in the spring-time, only the dogs' eyes then are filled with dumb anticipation. Several days before the family arrives, according to the keeper of the kennels, the dogs become wild with excitement and there is no restraining them. They are like children waiting for the curtain to rise on their first theater-party. There are little yelps of delight from the younger dogs, and much wagging of tails and jumping about by the older ones. Somehow they have learned that the folks they love are soon to be with them again.

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fires in the house are lit a day or so before their coming, and Mr. Terhune believes that the collies know that smoke curling from the chimney and a warm feeling in the deserted house is a signal that the master is returning. Farewell between dogs and master is always a sad time, for, of course, the collies can not be taken to the city, but must be left where they can have the freedom that is just as vital to their existence as sleep or food is to you or me. There is one of the dogs—which it is I can not recall—which for half an hour after the automobile has disappeared in the distance, will lie down and moan like a child. During the war the Sunnybank collies were far from being slackers. There was not a single one among them who did not earn, by his own efforts, at least one Liberty Bond, and some of them gave substantial contributions to the Red Cross. Lad, in fact, lies sleeping beneath the green earth with the honorary Red Cross fastened about his noble neck. These funds were chiefly raised from cash prizes which the dogs won at shows and from the sale of many Sunnybank puppies. One of the oddest stories which Mr. Terhune told was of the two collies Lad and Bruce, who were to pose for their photographs. The plan apparently, did not appeal to them, and despite the coaxing of the photographer, they simply would n't face the camera. Each time the photographer jumped nimbly in front of them they promptly turned their backs before they could be snapped. Mr. Terhune at last came to the rescue, and taking the head of a dog under each arm, he pointed their faces directly toward the camera's eye. But the dogs were not to be outwitted,—at least to their way of thinking, and when the films were developed it was discovered that both had their eyes


ONE day our baby tried to climb
The stairs alone. I came in time
To see the little toddler there,
A golden sunbeam on his hair
And by his side. I wondered why
The baby did not fall and cry.
Too frightened to know what to say,

tightly closed. Like the ostrich who buries his head in the sand and thus believes that he can not be seen by the approaching hunters, these dogs evidently believed that if they could not see the camera, it, of course, could not see them. I did not have to spend many moments at Sunnybank farm to learn how deeply these collies love their master and what implicit faith they have in his kindly treatment of them. Standing in front of Bob, Mr. Terhune made a quick move, bringing his foot within an inch of the dog's eyes, but Bob never stirred. Raising his hand, he made another motion, as if to strike him upon the head—not an eyelash trembled. Instead, there was confidence that was almost human shining in the wistful eyes. Bob knew that in all his life the master of the house had never struck him, and that he would not do SO now. As I stood on the veranda making my farewells, Wolf walked up beside me and pushed his moist nose between my fingers. I thought as I stood there, that here was Wolf, son of Lad, whose name is almost sacred in the hearts of the youngsters who have learned to love him, honoring with his friendship a poor dog-lover who at best could only write a few heartfelt words of appreciation about him. Soon our automobile had swung around the house and past the kennels. Several collies were peering from behind the wire of their enclosure. Perhaps they knew instinctively that I was going to write about them and that it would n’t be dog etiquette to bark at me. As the driveway rounded into the main highway I glanced back and saw them still looking after me. Trees hid the road and blue specks of water gleamed through the thin November foliage. A hundred yards more, and Sunnybank and its famous collies had faded into memory.


I stood and gazed there in dismay.
And then it was explained to me—
I saw how it must surely be:
What looked like rays of clear sunlight
Were really angel's wings so bright,
Enfolding him with tender care
Upon the dark and dangerous stair.
Louise Marshall Haynes.



IN the middle of a circular bay, forming a perfect horseshoe, with a sandy beach at its center and a rocky cliff on either side, two boys were fishing for shrimps. The taller of the two, a curly-haired, red-cheeked fellow, was rowing. The other, a short and sturdy lad, now and again lifted a pocket-net of wire-screening, and, shaking a score or more slimy, snapping creatures into one corner of it, seized them and tossed them, still alive, into a kettle of boiling water, which is simply the least cruel and regular way of handling shrimps; cook them on the spot and eat them some time afterward. Both boys had the clear, ruddy complexion which comes from clean living and frequent sallies into the out-of-doors. Hugh Clarkston, the tall youth of the curly hair, was something of a student; his cousin, Booth Tucker, had been born for action and adventure. “Look—look!” exclaimed Hugh, suddenly. “What's that out at the entrance of the bay— bit of drift or a seal?” “Might be a seal. moves, I'd say.” “Take a pot-shot at it.” Hugh lifted a light rifle from the bow and passed it to his cousin. Booth stood with one knee braced on the seat and steadied himself for a shot. “Dum boat rocks so!” he grumbled, “More waves out there, too. Watch the thing bob!” “It's gone under!” “No, there it is!” “Try it now.” Catching his breath, Booth put his finger to the trigger. For a second the boat was quiet. The brown spot hung on the crest of a wavelet. It was a beautiful target; Booth was a sure shot. Just as his finger touched the trigger, a strange thing happened—a something which sent the rifle clattering from nerveless fingers and the cold perspiration springing to his forehead. “Who-who—where d' you suppose he came from?” he was at last able to sputter. “Who knows?” said Hugh, scanning the

Watch it bob. It

sea. Never a mist nor a cloud obscured the vision, yet not a sail nor coil of smoke of nearby craft. “What 's more important is— we 've got to help him,” he said, seizing the oars and rowing vigorously. Booth, having hung the shrimp-trap across the bow, drew a second pair of oars from beneath the seats and joined his cousin in sending the clumsy craft toward the brown spot still bobbing in the water. The truth was that the brown spot was neither driftwood nor brown seal, but a human being. By some freak of circumstance, the swimmer had chanced to throw a white fore arm high out of the water just as Booth was prepared unwittingly to send a bullet crashing into his skull. Realizing that this person, whoever he might be, had drifted in the water and was doubtless exhausted, the two boys now bent their backs to the oars in an effort to reach him. The beach and cliffs back of the bay in which the boys had been fishing were part of the shore-line of a small island which, on this side, faced the open Pacific Ocean, and on the other, the waters of Puget Sound off the coast of the State of Washington. Nestling among a group of giant yellow pines on a ridge well up from the beach, two white tents gleamed. There was no one about the tents at this moment. The two girls, who but a half-hour before had tidied up the place, had gone for a stroll across a narrow point of land and were at this time separated by a narrow tamarack-filled gully. Marion Norton, the older of the two, had gone back into the woods in search of a particular flaming red flower, which she needed to complete a collection she had been sketching in water-color. Lucile Tucker, her companion, had crossed the point and had come down to the beach. They were to meet on the beach some distance beyond. Lucile was Booth's sister. Marion and Hugh were cousins to the Tuckers and to one another. Marion had lived all her life in the North— for the most part in Nome, Alaska. She had there displayed an unusual talent for art, and had been sent down to the States that she might be taught some of the bewitching secrets of palette and brush. The others had always lived in Anacortes, Washington. “Burl”. Tucker, father of Lucile and Booth, was a hard-fisted old seaman, who had turned his mind to codfish and salmon. A small portion of the fortune he had made had been paid for this island, which had always been known as Mutineer's Island. Another small sum had been expended in purchasing a motor-boat. That boat now lay a short way up a narrow stream, which ran from the island into the sea. The four young people had come to the island for a two weeks' outing. Strange to say, not one of them had ever been here before, and, as far as they knew, they were the only persons on the island. Swept as it was by the furious storms which came tearing in from the open sea, this island would never have become a popular summer campingplace, even had Burl Tucker encouraged it, which he decidedly did not. The island was thickly wooded. This timber, with the price of lumber steadily mounting, was worth a fortune. He could not afford to risk losing it by a fire scattered by careless campers. It had been only after countless pleadings that his son and daughter, together with his favorite nephew and niece, had prevailed upon him to permit them to spend their vacation here. In the mind of this man of the sea there appeared to exist a lurking feeling, perhaps of dread—one scarcely could tell what —regarding this island. As Lucile, his daughter, now strolled along the beach, she shared something of this dread. She was thinking of stories her father had told—wild tales of earlier days. The island had earned its name, Mutineer's Island,for in those early, rough days on Puget Sound, when a man, or group of men, became unmanageable aboard a fishing-craft, they had been dumped with little ceremony on this island, supplied with a box of pilot-bread and

a side of bacon, and left here for an indefinite

period to repent at leisure. Lucile shivered as she remembered the tales her father had told her. As she shrank back into the dark depths of a clump of tamarack growing down to the very shore of the sea, she seemed to hear the complaining groan of an oarlock, as a dory drew toward shore. She seemed to see the square-rigger ride the waves on the horizon, and then, close in, the faces of men. Blear-eyed, with faces bruised and gashed from beatings too honestly earned, she saw them land; saw the pilot-bread and bacon tossed on the shore; heard the oarlocks groan again on the return to the ship. A cloud passed over the sun. The shadows

took on the inkiness of night. A shiver shot down her spine. Her brain suddenly seemed paralyzed with fear. Wild imaginings controlled her mind. Her father had been a roaring tyrant in the day when roaring tyrants were considered necessary on the sea. Were the deeds of that father to be visited on his daughter? Why had she induced the others to join her in this wild and deserted retreat? She knew the answer in a second. It was because Mutineer's Island had always held for her a curious and weird fascination. This fascination had at last drawn her to its shores. Now a vague premonition seemed to tell her that strange adventures awaited her here. As she stepped once more out upon the beach she was surprised that the creatures of her day-dreams were mere phantoms of imagination. On the beach she saw nothing, but as she shaded her eyes and gazed out to sea, she beheld a strange sight: the two boys of her party were lifting a third figure into their boat. The distance was great. They were but dimly outlined against the sky, yet, even so, she caught the gleam of the sun reflected from the body of the person being rescued, and realized that he was without clothing. She scanned the horizon for a sail. There was none. She turned to look up the beach and encountered the gaze of her cousin Marion. “Look!” she said, a wild gleam of terror in her eyes; “they are more cruel now than in those other days. They used to put them ashore with clothes and food, but now they throw them into the sea and allow them to save themselves if they can.” “What utter nonsense!” exclaimed Marion. “What in the world are you talking about?” For answer, Lucile pointed toward the boat. A moment later she drew her cousin into the shadows and, sitting down on a mosscovered log, told her all the wild thoughts that had sped through her mind. “Cheer up, dear,” and her cousin threw an arm about her, “these shadows and the wild stories about the place have unnerved you. You'll be all right after a good supper. As for that unfortunate chap out there, he probably was caught in a squall while out in a canoe.” “Canoe!” exclaimed Lucile; “there is n’t a camp nor a cottage within fifteen miles!” “Anyway, he 's had a mishap and may be ill from the overstrain and exposure. The boys may need us when they get him to camp. Come on!”


The girls had wandered a long way from camp. Arriving there finally, quite out of breath, they found the boat drawn up on the beach. Hugh was adding fuel to the open fire, over which a kettle was already beginning to steam. Booth was hastily plucking the feathers from a Chinese pheasant, while the stranger lay rolled in a blanket with his face to the fire. “Going to make him some broth,” explained Booth, tossing a handful of feathers to the wind; “must be mighty weak. He swam a long way from somewhere, I 'd say.” Lucile stole a glance at the stranger's face. She started. “Why, he 's only a boy!” she whispered. “Something like that,” Booth mumbled. “You don’t have to be so careful to whisper, though. His Nibs does n’t speak our language, it seems, nor any other that we know anything about. Mighty curious, I'd say.” “Jap trying to smuggle in?” “Maybe.” “He does n’t seem exactly Oriental,” said Lucile, looking closely at his face. With his eyes closed as if in sleep, the boy did not, indeed, seem to resemble perfectly any

of the many types Lucile had chanced to meet. There was something of the clean brown, the perfect curve of the classic young Italian; something of the smoothness of skin native to the Anglo-Saxon; yet there was, too, the round face, the short nose, the slight angle at the eyes which spoke of the Oriental. “He looks like the Eskimo we have on the streets of Nome,” suggested Marion, “only he 's too light-complexioned. Could n’t be, anyway.” “Fine chance!” laughed Booth; “come two thousand miles in a skin kayak to be spilled out in a calm sea. Fine chance, I'd say.” “Whoever he is, he 's some swimmer,” commented Hugh. “When we reached him, he was a mile from any land, with the sea

bearing shoreward, and there was n’t a sail

or steamer in sight.”

The four of them now busied themselves with preparing the evening meal, and for a time forgot their strange, uninvited guest.

When Lucile next looked his way she caught his eyes upon her in a wondering stare. They were at once shifted to the kettle, from which there now issued savory odors of boiling fowl.

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