IT was early December when our lecture schedule brought us back to a Wisconsin city. I had been looking forward particularly to my lecture in this town. There was a certain sentiment attached to the place, for here we had first met Hi-Bub. He was just beginning his education then, and I gave a program at his grade school. I remember how his beaming face stood out amid all the hundreds who thronged the assembly hall. There is a reason for such experiences. Our friendships in the world are not accidental. Emerson, who lived so close to the heart and purpose of things, tells us it is "not for nothing one face, one character, one fact, makes much impression on [us], another none." Our lives had need of Hi-Bub's friendship, and I like to believe he had need of ours. Now this city was more important to us because in it this blessing had begun.

My lecture was to be given in the auditorium of a large church not far from Hi-Bub's former school. We arrived early to see that the motion-picture equipment was properly prepared. Among the first to enter the auditorium were some people who knew and loved the northwoods. Giny and I were soon in earnest conversation with them. We talked enthusiastically about certain lakes, streams and wooded areas we all knew.

In the midst of this conversation I heard, or thought I did, a thin voice say, "Hello, Tham Cammel." Couldn't be, of course, so I kept on talking.

"Hello, Tham Cammel," came the words again in such a strong tone that there was no doubt of their reality.

I turned around and there stood Hi-Bub in person! Beside him was his daddy, and both of them looked at us as if they expected us to faint with surprise. I wasn't far from doing that very thing. For a moment I couldn't say a word. I shook my head and rubbed my eyes in bewilderment, while Hi-Bub let little giggles slip past the hand that partially covered his mouth.

"Hi-Bub, Hi-Bub!" I finally burst out. "You old lumberjack! You timber cruiser! You woodsman! You pioneer! You are the biggest surprise I ever saw. How did this happen?"

"Happen?" put in his daddy, casting a wise look at his boy. "Whenever that fellow wants anything, it always happens. He's been planning this for a long time. A friend of his here wrote him you were coming. So I had to drive over two hundred miles to bring him to your lecture!"

By this time Giny had her arms about the happy Hi-Bub. We were discourteous to our other friends, I fear, though I am sure they understood. Hi-Bub was the center of things for the moment. We plied him with questions.

The lecture was late starting that night because our conversation was not finished in time. We sat at one side of the auditorium hearing about Hobo, the new dog, the cats, the rabbit, school and many other important things. Hobo was a "thwell dog," we were informed. He didn't like to take a bath, but he took one when he had to and then immediately hunted up some dirt to roll in. He followed Hi-Bub to school almost every day and waited outside until school was over.

"But how about Little John Deer Foot?" I asked.

Hi-Bub shot a glance at me to see if I was making sport of him and his 'maginary friend. Apparently my expression was satisfying, for in soft, sincere tones he told me of the doings of the Indian boy. Little John Deer Foot was having trouble with Old Charley the bear. Old Charley didn't want to go to bed. Like many children he was using every excuse he could to stay up, Hi-Bub revealed seriously. Every day it was the same thing. Little John would say to him, "Charley, you mutht go to thleep." Then Old Charley would say, "I'm thirthty. I'll go to the creek and get a drink, then I'll go to thleep." Old Charley would be gone so long the Indian boy would have to go after him. Maybe he would find the bear miles away, trying to get in a cabin. On the side, Hi-Bub's daddy told me that very thing was happening. Old Charley was not in hibernation as yet, and almost every day some new kind of bear capers were reported, all of which were charged to him.

During the lecture Hi-Bub and his daddy sat in the front row. I could hear the boy laughing at the scenes and making his own comments. In the midst of the lecture the film broke. "I 'thpect Old Charley did that," I heard him say.

Afterward Hi-Bub stood right beside me until the usual conversation and comments were over. I could see there was something special on his mind. Presently it came out.

"Tham Cammel," he said.

"Yes, Hi-Bub," said I, bending down to his level.

"Well—Tony couldn't come."

"Tony couldn't come? Who in the world is Tony?"

"That is the little friend who wrote you were to be here," explained Hi-Bub's daddy. "The youngster is in a bad way. He is in bed and may have to remain there for a long time. It happened suddenly. Pretty tough on him. What hurts him worst of all is that he can't see your pictures.

"Tony feelth awful, Tham Cammel," added Hi-Bub, a distressed look in his eyes where joy was so natural. "He duthn't laugh any more."

"He is a sad little tyke," said the daddy. "We saw him for a while today."

"Yeth." Hi-Bub picked up the lead again. "An' hith mom theth he mutht laugh and be happy if he want-th to be well. But he duthn't. He jutht lie-th th-till and lookth thad."

"That's too bad," I said sympathetically. "Couldn't you make him happy, Hi-Bub? You are so happy yourself."

"No," said the boy, quite dejectedly. "I tried to be funny but I gueth I didn't do very well. He theth he duthn't feel like being happy. He wanted ..."

Hi-Bub hesitated and looked at me with that appeal that, as his father says, always gets him what he wants.

"I with he could have come tonight," he added.

There was an idea developing in my thought. "Hi-Bub," I said. "I wonder if we can't do something for Tony to help him be happy."

"What?" asked the boy, looking up expectantly.

"Well—you say he wanted to see my pictures. Now I have tomorrow morning free. If you think Tony would like it, suppose we take our pictures over and show them to him right in his own room. We could arrange it so he would just sit up in bed to see them. What do you think of that plan?"

There was no question about what Hi-Bub thought of it. With a "Whe-e-e-e" he ran over and threw his arms around me, his eyes again flashing happiness.

"Oh boy, oh boy-that will be thwell!" he cried. "Tony ith gonna be happy—he'th gonna laugh, I betcha."

"Yes, Hi-Bub," I said. "But first you must find out if it is the right thing to do. You must ask his mother if she wants us, and if she does, what would be the best time."

"Oh, yeth-she want-th uth!" affirmed Hi-Bub. "Th-he thed about ten o'clock."

"Now wait a minute," I said, wrinkling my forehead. "You mean that you had already planned this and made the arrangements?"

"Yeth," exclaimed Hi-Bub. "I told Tony you would come. Oh boy, oh boy!" He went dancing away in high glee.

I looked up understandingly at his daddy.

"You see what I mean?" he asked. "When that fellow sets his mind on something, he gets it."

At promptly ten o'clock the next morning we were at Tony's house. His mother was expecting us all right, just as Hi-Bub had said. "You are kind to come," she commented as she admitted us. "Hi-Bub asked if it would be all right if you did. There couldn't be anything better for Tony. He has been discouraged, and felt so bad when he couldn't go to your program."

"Tony is going to be the smallest audience I ever had," I said, "and maybe the greatest."

Tony proved to be a sad-looking little fellow. He shook hands with me without comment, though there was a look of interest in his eyes. "Tony is tired of his bed," said his mother, as she braced him up on pillows. "He's going to get well and play again the way he used to with Hi-Bub. But he must be very quiet for a while, and he must be—he simply must be happy and cheerful." She flashed a meaningful glance at the youngster, but Tony certainly didn't look very happy.

We set up our equipment, darkened the room and began to show the pictures. The audience consisted of Tony, his mother, Hi-Bub and his daddy, Giny and me. It wasn't long before I learned that I was simply the operator of the machine. Hi-Bub was the narrator. It was his show and should be, for he knew what had to be done.

"That'th Th-tubby the chipmunk, Tony," he cried, pointing a stiff little finger. "Look at'im, look at' im."

Tony did look at 'im. His comment was "My!" "There come-th Patty," exclaimed Hi-Bub, "Look at 'im. Look at 'im."

"What's Patty?" asked Tony, the first full words he had said.

"He'th a woodchuck, dumbbell," said Hi-Bub. "Oh boy, he'th funny. Look at 'im eat a carrot."

"My!" said Tony with increasing interest.

"Hey, lookut, lookut!" shouted the excited Hi-Bub, grabbing Tony by the ear and jerking his head. "That'th Noothanth the red thquirrel. Watch him run out on that rope. Lookut, he'th gonna fall off."

Nuisance the red squirrel did fall off, a tiny tumble that hurt him not one bit, and yet accomplished a miracle. Tony laughed—a real, spontaneous, giggly laugh.

"An', Tony, Tony", ranted the irrepressible Hi-Bub, "Here come-th Cheer. Oh boy, he'th a thwell bird. Lookut hith wingth. Lookut him th-trut."

By this time Tony wasn't missing a thing. He was leaning forward, not even using the support of his pillows. His own thin little hand was raised again and again as he pointed to things in the pictures. Repeatedly he laughed outright.

For our part, we were watching the pictures but little. The two children before us were our principal interest, though we stole side glances at Tony's mother to see her wiping away sly tears as Tony rose to the occasion. Hi-Bub's daddy spent his time looking at his son with unrestrained pride.

Hi-Bub had all admiration coming. I know that I never have and never will sway an audience as he did that day. Tony was completely carried away. He forgot himself, forgot his confinement, forgot his discomfort and gave himself up to natural joy. He was calling all the animals by name and watching excitedly for each new stunt they did.

When the film was finished and the last scene had flickered off the screen, Tony was laughing as loudly as Hi-Bub. He even found the energy to engage in a brief boxing match with his former playmate. We had to interrupt this, however, for Hi-Bub's enthusiasm knew no bounds. He imagined that now that the laugh had come to Tony, there was nothing left to do but dress him and start him in a football game.

"That was wonderful medicine for him," said his mother. "You have no idea how we've tried to awaken his spirit. It seemed he didn't want to get well. Now, well, if this will only last!"

"I have another idea," I said, "Tony, did you like the pictures?"

"Oh, my-yes!" said Tony, in a way that left no doubt.

"Did you like the animals?"

"Oh, my."

"And did you like the woods?"

Tony just looked his affirmative answer.

"Well, then," I continued, "here is my idea. If you will keep happy and help yourself get well—if you will try to be like Cheer, the red-winged blackbird, and give out joy to everyone around you—then when you are strong enough, Giny and I will invite you to come up and stay with us so you can play with those animals. That is, if your mother approves."

There was no question that both mother and Tony highly approved. "Hi-Bub told us of your generous offer," she said. "I didn't know for sure that you meant it, since we were strangers to you. But I am sure it gives Tony a reason to be happy and to get well"

I looked at Hi-Bub. "You mean that Hi-Bub had already told you we wanted Tony?" I asked.

"Why, yes, he did—yesterday."

"Splendid!" I said, trying to save the situation. "Thank you, Hi-Bub."

I glanced over at his daddy. "You see what I mean?" said he.

We stood beside our cars saying good-by. Hi-Bub and his daddy would be driving north to their home. We were going south.

"Tham Cammel," said Hi-Bub, who was trying to drag out the farewell as long as possible. "Yes, Hi-Bub."

"Would you be comin' home at Chrithmuth?"

"Oh, it would be fun to do that, Hi-Bub," I exclaimed, "but I am afraid we can't. You see, we wouldn't have any place to stay."

"Couldn't you th-tay at the Thanctuary?" asked HiBub. He had practiced a long time to say that last word.

"No, our cabin isn't built for winter. We would be very cold there."

"Couldn't you th-tay with uth?" he persisted.

I laughed. "You know your cabin is already filled with your family. I am afraid we would have to sleep with Hobo."

"He'th a thwell dog," commented Hi-Bub.

"Yes—but I think he wouldn't want us to crowd him. No, Hi-Bub, I guess Giny and I can't get up there for Christmas, though we would like to, if our cabin were the right kind."

We said our good-bys, promising to see one another in the spring. But there was a funny little look in Hi-Bub's eyes that Giny and I both noticed.

ABOUT a week later Giny and I received a very welcome letter. The postmark was our own home town, the handwriting that of a friend.

What a wealth of heavenly good is wrapped up in that one word friend. It gets interwoven one way or another with everything that is right and desirable in life.

It is rather hard to define, though. I discovered that one day early in our experience with Hi-Bub. He had come to the island for one of his visits that were then just assuming some degree of regularity.

"Well, well—here is our little friend," I exclaimed by way of welcome, then partly to myself I added, "There is no more beautiful adventure in life than just the coming of a real, enduring friend."

The statements did not escape Hi-Bub. He was busy about the woods for a while greeting the creatures who had now learned that his coming was the signal that a feast would begin. Presently he was back at my side.

"Tham Cammel," he said, in the tone and manner which always began a discussion of some sort.

"Yes."

"Wh-wh-what ith a friend?" If he was one of them, he wanted to know why and what made him that way.

I was taken aback for a moment. Questions about chipmunks, skunks, red-backed mice, flowers, trees and. such things were expected and I had most answers ready. In response to the queries of Hi-Bub I had delivered long dissertations on both the real and fanciful things of the world, but I had never before been asked anything so challenging as to define a friend. In fact, I guess I had thought you didn't define one. You can be a friend, or have one but to get it into a formula hadn't occurred to me.

"Well, Hi-Bub," I said stalling for time and thought, "I guess we can say it this way: a friend is someone you love a lot."

He looked up very seriously, his little forehead wrinkled and his eyes half closed.

"But ithn't that everyone?" he asked.

Now there is one that will stop you. His new question was a revelation of his unspoiled view of life. With him the vision was still clear that creation is naturally good and lovable. He lived at that point in Scripture that declares, "God created man in His own image ... and God saw every thing that He had made, and, behold, it was very good." He had not learned that people sometimes take on themselves unnatural traits, and become dishonest, selfish and unfriendly. He had not learned that this race of man created in God's image had in error separated itself into races, nationalities, creeds and colors. If a friend was someone you love a lot, then everyone was a friend, for he had no notion that there could be anyone he didn't love.

"Yes, that is right, Hi-Bub," I said. I searched for some way to pursue the definition without destroying his admirable attitude. "Friendliness is found everywhere when one keeps his heart right as you do. But fiends as we usually think of them are just a little different. Friends are people who are close to us."

I hadn't said anything convincing or important yet, and I by the puzzled look on the lad's face I knew it. Trying to shift the burden of explanation I suggested we look in the dictionary. It didn't help much, for its words were too cold. It just said, "One attached to another by esteem, respect, affection." Hi-Bub didn't care about that. While I read it, he fingered through an animal picture book and didn't have to hear a word I said. I tried some poetic lines from a book of quotations, but he still looked at animal pictures.

"Come on out in the woods, Hi-Bub," I said, rising and leading the way. "I believe we can understand this friendship business there."

He always wanted to go into the woods, so out we went. We followed the trail that circles the island, Hi-Bub carefully picking his steps so he made little noise. Indians walked that way, he had been told, and he would too.

"Now, see those hills in the distance?" I asked when we had reached the right point.

He did.

"What do you suppose we would find up there among the trees?"

Well, he was sure there were deer there. There would be chipmunks, porcupines, squirrels, rabbits, woodchucks and birds too.

"Do you love them all, Hi-Bub?"

"Yeth."

"Even though you never saw those particular animals, you love them anyway?"

"Yeth," he said with a little emphasis born of impatience.

"That is right, you love them just the same as you love Stubby, or Nuisance, or Patty. You love them all. But these animals on the island, you can play with—they come up to you and you like to have them around. The animals on our island, then, are just the same as the others, only they are not afraid of you. They come to you for food and they make you laugh and be happy. Friends do things for one another. So these island animals are your friends. Do you see?"

Hi-Bub nodded his head, at the same time tugging at my hand. Illustrated with the ever-interesting parable of animals, the definition of a friend was becoming clear to him. Besides, the mere mention of his island pals excited him. "Let-th go and find a friend," he said with a laugh.

Our quest was not so easy. It was midday and the animals had hidden from the strong sun. We looked for Stubby, but he was nowhere around. We looked for Nuisance, but he was missing. We called and coaxed, but for a long time not a living thing responded. Then suddenly out of a hole almost at our feet popped Patty the woodchuck. His coming was so quick and unexpected it startled us.

"There you are, Hi-Bub," I exclaimed as he held out a peanut to reward the creature for his devotion. "Now do you understand what a friend is?"

"Yeth, I know," said the delighted youngster. "It ith thomeone who popth up when you need 'im."

Not a bad definition of a friend at that, just someone who pops up when you need him.

The letter we received came from friends who fit that definition perfectly. Through many years of acquaintance they have always "popped up" when there was a service to perform. Their cozy forest home lies but a few miles from our Sanctuary. Their letter bore three signatures Ray, Ada and June. Ray was a forest ranger, strong, capable, fearless, knowing the woods as few men do. Ada was the wife and mother, in love with family, home and the wildwood in which they lived. June was their dark eyed, dark-haired daughter slightly older than our Hi-Bub, who had such beauty of feature and character that she was the center of attention wherever she went. These fine people had been our companions on many wilderness adventures.

Their letter reflected considerable excitement. It disposed of the greeting, and then got down to its purpose. "A little bird has been telling us a secret," the letter ran. "It is a nice little bird, and we won't tell you what kind it is. The secret is that your schedule is such you could come to the northwoods for Christmas. The same bird says that you would come if you had a place to stay. We told the bird you do have a place to stay. Our home is just yearning for you, and so are our hearts. We have a guest room, and we have plans for the happiest Christmas we ever knew. Will you come, and make these plans come true?"

"Blessed Ray and Ada," I said as Giny finished reading the letter aloud. "They would be the ones to suggest that."

"We can do it, can't we?" asked Giny anxiously.

"Well, I had planned to do some writing at that time," I said cautiously.

"But if we go up there, you’ll have more to write about," she declared.

Our letter went back on the first mail. We would be glad to come, we said. We could arrive the day before Christmas and stay for several days. We requested an old-fashioned Christmas. "Just one question we want to ask," our letter said. "That little bird that has been whispering so much-by any chance did it lisp somewhat, and pronounce my name Tham Cammel?"

"It will be an old-fashioned Christmas," read the reply that came immediately. "There will be turkey, a Christmas tree, a grab bag, fun, food and friends. We will meet you at the train." A postscript added, "Yes, the little bird did lisp, and he called you Tham Cammel. If you see him, don't you dare scold him. He did this in a way that was all too cute. Besides, if you had just written us as you should that you wanted to come, the little bird could have saved his whispering. Incidentally, we believe this same whispering, lisping bird is quite smitten with our June !"