ONE DAY in early summer our trail again crossed that of Big John Shawano. In need of some supplies we couldn't get in our village, Giny and I drove to a larger town in a neighboring county. We learned from acquaintances there that Big John had been in town the day before on some banking business. The Indian was well known in this community. He had been born there. He and his father were on hand to welcome the first lumbermen and to help build the sawmill about which this town had grown.

It was fortunate for Big John that the businessmen were well acquainted with him, for his methods of doing business were far from orthodox. His conception of such dealings stemmed from his experience with nature. As has been said of gold, all things of the forest are where you find them. If Big John wanted berries, he went to berry patches and took them. If he wanted meat he took forest animals. If he wanted mushrooms he looked to the garden of the wildwood. Consequently, when he needed merchandise he went to the general store where such things were found-and, when he needed money, he went to the bank. Not that John ever asked something for nothing. He paid for what he got, always. But so far as he could see there was no difference in getting money from a bank than in picking June berries from a neighboring knoll.

His need of money was not frequent, nor was it great. The trapping he did gave him an amount almost sufficient to purchase all store supplies. Occasionally his income was a bit short, however, or perhaps it did not come at the right time. This situation never bothered him, for just as he knew the animal runways of the forest, the berry patches and gardens of wild herbs, he knew where there were piles of money. There he went. It was a twenty-five-mile walk but he minded that not in the least.

One of our acquaintances had seen the tall Indian as he strode into the bank. The door shook on its hinges at the push he gave. He nodded a greeting to the bank president, who was his lifelong friend. Then he went directly to the teller's cage where he could see piles of money. As he approached the window, Big John took from under his jacket a most impressive-looking tomahawk. He paused for a moment to fondle it, for this was his most prized possession. The head of the weapon was made of steel, the handle carved of seasoned hickory. There were crude symbolic markings on the wood. Interested people and collectors had tried to draw from John the story of that tomahawk. They tried to buy both the story and the weapon. Neither was for sale. That revealed the strange and fascinating character of Big John Shawano. His sense of values was entirely apart from our rating of things.

Certain possessions, both memories and objects, were his alone. He defended them against the world. He said that the tomahawk had been passed down to him from his father, who had received it from his grandfather. There the story ended, leaving listeners hungering for more. Like a hundred other tales rich in tradition and romance, this stayed in Big John's mental treasury—a realm where he lived in chiefly luxury and dignity. Here fancy mingled with memory, legend with history, fiction with fact, until John with fine disregard for any distinction between the real and unreal, built himself a world. This tomahawk belonged to that world, its value in the old Indian's eyes greater than a king's crown.

My friend said if he had not known Big John he would have had a severe fright as the Indian walked toward the cashier, tomahawk in hand. John held the weapon as if he meant to use it. His stride was powerful and purposeful, his face set and stern. However, the cashier anticipated no bank robbery. "Hello, John," he called cordially. "What can I do for you today?"

"Give me t'ree dollar!" commanded Big John, placing the tomahawk on the window ledge.

John's banking transactions would have startled Wall Street. Three dollars was the usual limit of the loan. Perhaps it was for flour, sugar, salt, underwear—whatever it was, it was certain to be the exact amount he needed.

The usual credit investigation and the signing of notes and papers were taboo in John's dealings. He got the money he requested without hesitation. As the smiling cashier passed the amount to him, John handed the tomahawk through the window. It was his security. The cashier took the weapon and reached to put it on a lower shelf.

"Here, you!" John spoke sharply. "You put him here!" He indicated a place in plain view just inside the cage. The tomahawk was put there—quickly.

"John pay—two moons," declared the Indian.

The cashier knew very well this promise would be kept. In two months to the day that money would be repaid. John would come through the bank door like a hurricane. He would come to that window and lay three dollars on the sill. Maybe it would be in nickels and pennies, but every cent would be there. It had happened many times before, and John never failed. There would be no interest paid on the loan, however. John couldn't see any sense in paying for the use of money. The cashier knew also that the tomahawk had better be in the exact spot where the Indian had left it.

There was a disturbing strain in my friend's report. Later in the day when he was driving home he had found Big John Shawano sitting on a log at the roadside. It was an unexpected sight to see the Indian resting. Our friend stopped to see if all was well with him. John behaved strangely, saying his "head go round" The man took him into his car and drove him to the point where John's trail leaves the highway. Here John refused further assistance. He drew himself to his full height and threw his packsack on his back and went down the trail. The man watched him for a few moments. Noting that John walked unsteadily the man called to ask if he should go along and help him get home. "John all right," the fearless answer came back. "He know what do."

Giny and I were quick to make our decision when we heard this account of Big John. To think of him ill and alone in his solitary cabin greatly distressed us. We drove to his trail, parked our car and started afoot for his wilderness home. The trail showed little use. At some points it was rather hard to follow. Only John went over it and he did not often come out from his retreat.

The distance was said to be a mile and a half, but it seemed much longer to us. Perhaps anxiety had something to do with stretching it out. It is strange what pictures haunt the mind when there is concern and uncertainty. We had visions of John in a very bad way. We tried to thrust the suggestions out of our thoughts, but they were persistent.

We might well have spared ourselves all worry. Long before we reached the clearing at his cabin we heard the sound of wood-chopping. The strokes were frequent and powerful, and I knew no sick man was swinging that ax. As we looked out on the clearing we saw John make the last stroke to cut a large log in two. He put his ax to one side, then lifted a section of birch that would have defied a man of ordinary strength.

We remained concealed while we took in the frontier scene before us. John's log cabin was typical of the kind used by forest dwellers. It was small, about ten by fourteen feet, with one window and a door. Smoke was coming out the chimney. The cabin was well chinked. The grounds were reasonably neat and clean. At one side stood boards on which skins had been stretched to dry-part of John's winter trapping work. There was an outdoor fire place made of loose stones where he did his summer cooking.

It was Big John himself who drew attention, however. He wielded both ax and saw in a masterly manner. He was about as far from being a sick man as a human being could be. We felt embarrassed at our presence there. It might be hard to make the Indian understand why we came. In a whisper Giny suggested we keep our visit a secret and return down the trail before he saw us. Then a huge black dog that looked more like a bear put an end to any such idea. He came from behind the cabin and, discovering us by either sight or scent, sprinkled unwelcoming barks all over the forest.

John sharply commanded the dog to silence while he looked around to discover the cause of this commotion. He picked up his ax and started in our direction. I felt grateful it wasn't a tomahawk, anyway. There was nothing to do now except to advance and declare ourselves, though I felt like a boy who has been caught stealing watermelons.

"Well, well—hello, John," I called as cordially as I could.

John looked at me challengingly. "What you want?" he asked gruffly. He stood motionless as he watched us advance toward him.

"Do you remember us?" I asked. I gave him our names and recalled places where we had met before, particularly the experience at Christmastime.

John did recall. His expression softened somewhat.

Then with an explosive "How!" he extended his hand to me. As a greeting for Giny there was just a large-sized grunt accompanied by a flutter of a smile.

"John," I said, "tell me—were you iil yesterday? If you were, how is it that you are so well today?"

John looked puzzled. "How you know?" he asked.

"We heard it through the man who drove you home. We were afraid you would need help, so we came to see you."

The old Indian's face was a study. Apparently this act of friendly interest touched him deeply. He had to struggle to retain his composure.

'You come far—ver' far—see if Big John well," he said, his eyes resting on me steadily.

"We knew you were alone, John," said Giny.

"Yes," said the old Indian in the nearest to a tender tone I had ever heard him use. "Yes, John lone. You care about John. You come see John. Good!" He turned his back to us and started for his cabin. We were not sure what we should do until he said, "Come!"

"Oh, we don't want to bother you, John," said Giny hastily. "You have work to do. You are all right, we can see that. We will go and let you work."

John looked about, once more the haughty chief. "Come!" he commanded in such sharp tones we were startled. Well, we went. We were discovering that when you are in John's company you do as he says.

We entered his cabin and he assigned us seats--consisting of wooden crates he had brought from town. The cabin was as clean as it could be with just a dirt floor. There was a small wood stove and above it hung his modest collection of cooking utensils. There was a cupboard in one corner in which were his dishes and some supplies. On the wall hung his rifle, his much-prized war club and articles of clothing. A pair of snowshoes stood in another corner. At one side of the small room was his bed, an amazing structure, the mere sight of which would literarily be a pain in the neck to our comfort-loving generation. It was composed of two hardwood boards suspended between birch logs. There John slept winter and summer. Upon inquiry he told us he used blankets, just rolled up in them, put a piece of firewood under his head, "and sleep like rock!"

John was quite talkative now. We learned that he loved this "wigwam," as he called his cabin. People had wanted him to come and live in town, he said. They had offered him "big house." He would not go. He liked his little cabin out in the great forest. In winter, he said, it was best of all. His comments were hard to understand sometimes, but I gathered that he felt he was the only one in this forest world—"just God and John."

"Now, John," I said, feeling that we had reached the place where I could press my question. "You haven't told us what happened yesterday. Our friend was really concerned about you. Now what did you do?"

The tall! Indian laughed loudly. "Much people make John sick," he said in a voice so deep it seemed to shake the walls of his cabin. "When John go town, men bump, men push, men hurry—John get mix up—get sick. John come home—take big medicine—no more sick."

"What medicine did you take, John?" asked Giny, deeply interested. "It worked a miracle."

"You not know?" he asked.

"No." Giny and I both felt guilty in our failure to understand.

Big John's face was a study. He looked at us incredulously for a moment, and then into his eyes came a faraway look that I had seen there before. It was as if he took a mental flight into a realm where we could not follow. He straightened up to his full height, raised his right hand above his head until his finger tips touched the roof of his cabin. Then he uttered a long, low chant in a strange tongue, probably the language of the Pottawatomie. It was an odd experience for us.

"John," said Giny, in an effort to draw him back to conversation.

He continued his chant, seeming to have forgotten we were there.

"John, John!" Giny persisted. At length the old Indian looked down at her. "John, what are you saying? Can you tell us? We are so anxious to know."

I have never known whether he attempted an interpretation of his chant or if his English words expressed thoughts coined for our interest. "Wind blow, tall pine whisper—that good medicine," said our host slowly and impressively. "Eagle scream at dawn—good medicine. Great Spirit make big quiet good medicine. Breath of forest, drink deep here—" and he beat on his huge chest with his fist "good medicine. Woods God make—good medicine. Town man make—bah!"

He drifted into his native tongue again, carrying on a chant that ended in a mere whisper. Giny and I waited a long time, hoping he would tell us more about his big medicine. Our hopes were vain. The old Indian sat with his eyes closed, his lips now silent, his face turned upward as if in voiceless prayer. When he did speak again, it was with a startling change in subject and style.

"Where boy?" he asked.

"You mean Hi-Bub? Oh—he is back in the village with his parents," I replied.

"Good boy! Good boy!" Then John's eyes lighted up with interest and amusement. "He still talk spirit boy?" he asked.

"Spirit boy?"

"Yes, Indian spirit boy!"

I was puzzled for a moment, then realization came. John Shawano was remembering the imaginary playmate we had mentioned during our visit with him at Christmas. "You mean Little John Deer Foot, don't you, John?" I exclaimed.

The Indian nodded, smiling. I explained that Hi-Bub still talked of his invisible companion.

The conversation dragged a little and not wishing to Put a strain on our welcome, Giny and I rose to go.

"Sit down!" commanded John. We sat down.

"You read!" demanded the Indian. Without argument, I agreed to read.

John went to his crude cupboard. From a top shelf he took a carefully wrapped package. Ceremoniously he unrolled the paper, until he held in his hand the very Bible we had seen at Christmas.

"You read 'bout papoose come up," he said with chiefly authority.

I hesitated, not knowing just what he meant.

"Papoose come up!" he thundered.

"I believe he means the Resurrection," interposed Giny. It was a helpful suggestion and relieved a tense situation. I found the account as given in Luke, and read it to the Indian. He laughed deep and long, then requested that I read it again. He asked that I read it a third time, then a fourth. "Ho! Ho!" he laughed in loud triumph. "They can't kill that one. He come up. He know big medicine. He tell how!"

By gestures and broken English he told us that some day he would "come up" as Jesus had. He would go to his people, who he said lived beyond the setting sun. He would teach them what the Big Book said, and "everybody come up."

The conversation was interesting, but at last Giny was able to make our determined host understand that we must reach home before dark.

"Ugh," he grunted, "you go!"

As we were leaving the door Big John took his war club from the wall. "You like?" he asked, extending the ancient weapon to me.

"Yes, John, I like that very much," I replied.

"You take!" he commanded, offering the gift to me. Then with an unexpected outburst of humor he added,

"you take—no use on squaw," pointing to Giny. We all laughed.

"But John, this is valuable," I protested. "You should not give it away. Let me buy it from you."

"John give," he snapped with finality. "You come see John. You friend. John like much."

He had trouble with his words, but there was no question that Big John Shawano was grateful for our interest in him and for our friendly visit. I accepted the war club with the realization that John was giving me one of his most prized possessions.

"We had a precious experience with that grand old character," said Giny as we were driving home.

"It will make a wonderful memory," said I.

"Indeed it will," she agreed. "A memory that will be a constant challenge to make our faith pure, strong and yet simple."

THE summer was unusually rich in colorful sunsets and still evenings. Nature, enforcing her ironclad rule that no two things shall be alike, keeps her years and seasons new and original. Each one has its individual charm. As a rule sunsets of awe-inspiring splendor are not frequent. There is beauty to the close of every day, yet the brilliant effects that really make a visible symphony of the heavens are rare. That is why we were surprised when evening after evening such glory ruled the sky that we were drawn from other interests to watch it.

The still evenings led to many campfire gatherings. These are beneficial experiences. There is something profoundly virtuous about being wholly quiet. The grandest sermons, the real revelations of understanding, never come by way of speaking and hearing. They are whispered deep within our hearts and the disquieted mind does not hear them. It takes deep silence of thought to learn these truths "written in the fleshly tablets of the heart."

Conversations are important and helpful when they verify what we already know. Hence around our campfires there must be friends. Ada, Ray and June often came in their canoe. Frequently Hi-Bub and his parents were there too. They were now living in a summer cabin on an adjacent lake, and would row over to join us. Neighbors dropped in. Sometimes our circle included twenty or more. Always there was singing, to the accompaniment of my guitar. If you want to see forest life at its best, drift in a canoe at some distance from such a group. Look back at the magic of the flames as they light up the trunks of the trees and outline the smile that comes so naturally to every face. Hear the grand quality that wholesome joy puts into all voices. In this scene of scenes is harmony beyond mere tones—it is poetry incarnate.

We wondered at Salt during these campfire assemblies. Obviously he liked them. No such evening had progressed very far until we would see him moving slowly and silently into the outer fringe of the firelight. There he would lie in that funny manner of his, flat on his tummy, front legs beside his nose, hind legs stretched out beside his tail, foot soles turned upward. He responded little to those who petted him and he never uttered a sound. This latter fact puzzled us. As near as we knew he had not made a call all summer. It was strange, since he was such a talkative creature in previous years. Salt was a valuable addition to the party, however.

Two other members came from the wilds. A pair of loons often floated up within fifty yards of the island and joined in on some of our choicest barber-shop harmonies with their cries. In truth they were at times so persistent in their own original melodies that they made it difficult for us to follow our tunes or stay in pitch. Always we laughed at them and they laughed right back.

With our little friend Specks, the passing weeks brought less and less intimacy. He was our close companion through the bottle stage only. As he had less and less need of our food he became more aloof. He would play with Hobo, though, and it was amusing to see. They would race about the brush, sometimes dog chasing fawn, sometimes the reverse. Specks seemed to delight in doing things that made Hobo's going difficult. He would jump gracefully over logs or brush piles and then look around to see the short-legged dog scrambling awkwardly over the barrier or running far around. Sometimes Hobo growled and barked as if he meant to bite the spots off his playmate. Occasionally Specks struck out with his front feet savagely in Hobo's general direction. From back in the woods we heard the whistling snort of the old mother doe, as though she disapproved of such roughness. Yet always the play ended with dog and fawn each licking the other's face. Hobo would come running up to Hi-Bub's waiting arms with many a glance backward as if saying, "Hot dog, I had a good time." Specks would look around, too, with the same message in his beautiful eyes.

For ten days in midsummer raccoons ceased to come to our feeding station. We understood this period of intermission. Each year it had occurred. Back in the forest in hollow trees were the homes of the ring-tailed coons. During spring and early summer these homes house the little ones. They have long babyhoods compared to most other animals. They are left at home with definite orders to stay there while the parents roam about feeding. Then comes time for the young to leave the nest and learn how to be raccoons. At first their journeys are short. Certainly they are not then ready for the cold and hazardous swim to our island. So at this stage of their development the parent animals do not try them with tasks beyond their strength. The young are following the older ones, and if the grownups swam out into the lake the children would attempt it. Hence there are no journeys to our island until the coonlets are equal to it.

We do not stop putting food out during this temporary absence. It is impossible to know just when their visits will be resumed.

One night we heard the cute trilling cries we had been expecting. We were glad it happened during an evening when Hi-Bub was with us. We turned our flashlights on the feeding pan. Out of the night, silent as the darkness itself, came Racket. Cautiously she peered about. Then she snatched a piece of bread and disappeared into the near-by brush. We knew what was going on. Back in there were the young. She was introducing them to a new kind of food. Several times she came forward for an additional sample. She did not act like the Racket we had known for two years, who was so very friendly. Now she had the responsibility of motherhood. Her young must be taught to be careful. Her example was their instruction.

For an hour Racket worked at carrying bites to her concealed family. Then we heard new movement in the brush and leaves. Presently the beam of our flashlight rested upon three bright-eyed baby faces peering at us from close to the ground. We wanted to scream with delight. Racket came forward, showing them a proper attitude of caution, to which they now paid little attention. The pan of food simply fascinated them, and they pitched in with unrestrained enthusiasm. We shook with suppressed laughter at the way they felt about with their front feet, selecting with an acute sense of touch the morsels they preferred.

"Aren't they cute, Hi-Bub?" whispered Giny. "They look like three little gray muffs."

"Uh-huh," answered Hi-Bub, his whisper having a little solid voice in it. "Do you know their names, Mithuth Cammel?"

"Why, no. Do they have names already?"

"Uh-huh."

I presumed Little John Deer Foot had had something to do with the christening, but not wanting to get into any elaborate explanation at that time, I simply asked, "What are their names? They will have to be good ones for three such cute coons."

"Amos, Andy and the Kingfish," said Hi-Bub with assurance.

Giny and I wanted to break out into a big laugh, but we restrained ourselves. "Fair enough, Hi-Bub, fair enough 1" I exclaimed in low voice. "Amos, Andy and the Kingfish they shall be."

Amos, Andy and the Kingfish took to our island as their mother had. Within a few days we found they were not leaving the island at all but were living under the cabin. The mother came and went, but not they. Once in her baby days when she was ill she had come to live on the island. Perhaps then she had felt the safety of the place and now she sought that same sanctuary for her cubs.

Whatever inspired the move, we were glad to have them. Those three little woolly creatures were a constant delight to us. They became more and more confident of our friendship. At times they came out in full daylight, an unusual thing for the raccoon who for generations has preferred the cover of darkness for his wanderings.

Late summer saw some definite developments in the life of Old Charley, the bear. Our attempt to draw him and hold him at our feeding station in the woods had been a flat failure. He liked the food we put out all right, but getting it wasn't exciting enough. Seldom did we see him and generally our servings were consumed by jays, crows, squirrels, chipmunks and mice.

Old Charley's disposition was not improving to any degree. With more people coming into the region for vacations, he found new ways to get in trouble. One stunt of his was to lie down in the middle of a road and force a car to stop. He would not move an inch until bits of food were tossed out the window for him. The stretch of highway where he did this was sometimes referred to as "Old Charley's Toll Road."

He loved picnics, and he was a greater handicap to them than all the sand, ants and mosquitoes combined. Once he stole a lunch basket, picked it up in his mouth by the handle and ran into the woods. It was never found again. Another time a dozen picnickers left their food on a table while they went for a short hike. When they returned, Old Charley sat in the middle of the table having the time of his life. They beat on pans, yelled and danced around. As far as Charley was concerned this was just a good floor show. He didn't leave until he had eaten everything, or else mauled it so no one else wanted to eat it. Then he jumped down and ran away, completing the devastation by kicking the table over as he went.

At last he met his match. A trapper was brought into the region who knew a great deal about handling such animals. A large box was built of strong material. A door was arranged at one end so it would spring shut when anything entered the box. Inside was placed a large piece of bacon tied to a string that released the trap door. Old Charley couldn't resist the smell of that bacon. The trap had been set for him only a few nights when he entered it. The next morning the trapper found his prize sound asleep inside the box. Charley accepted his captivity philosophically. He grinned at the men as they laboriously loaded him on a truck. Away went Old Charley as he had come, with a special escort and a specially prepared conveyance.

Old Charley was taken to a zoo in a large city. Months later I stopped to see him. There he was in a good barless cage with several other bears. He did not know me, of course.

"Ever have any trouble with the bears?" I asked casually of the keeper who was working near at hand.

"No—they're good animals, easy to handle," said the man. Then he straightened up and looked at me. "That is, all of them are O.K. except that fellow with one ear. He's a devil. He steals my broom, my hat, my pipe, and bites the garden hose until it leaks. He's a devil, I tell you. There, now—look at that grin on his face!"

Old Charley was wearing his typical expression. Blinking his eyes he looked about as if to say, "O.K. —I don't care where I am. Just as long as there are people to pester it's all right with me."