THE DAY came when Hi-Bub made his first visit of the season. It was good to have him around again. In a way he was like the forest creatures we had been greeting—he picked up his life at the Sanctuary as if there had never been an interruption. We had barely finished our greetings until he was going about the island calling the names of his pets. They came running or flying to him, just as they had before a winter stepped between them.

There was a new problem relative to his companionship with these animals, however. Hi-Bub had brought Hobo along. Giny and I had not favored this. Through the years we found it best to keep dogs away from the Sanctuary. The creatures that have given us their confidence are at a disadvantage with a dog, and no doubt it is expecting a lot of even the most obedient dog not to chase them.

Hi-Bub pleaded the case for Hobo. He was sure his pet would obey. When he arrived at the island the first thing Hobo did was to take out after Still-Mo. He didn't get far with that frisky little creature. The red squirrel climbed a tree faster than Hobo could run along the ground, then sat telling the disappointed dog some uncomplimentary things about him and his ancestors. Hi-Bub caught up with his willful pet. He made the dog sit down before him. This was not done by command. Hi-Bub stood beside his pet and finally forced him into squatting position by pushing with all his might, right where the tail begins. Then the boy took hold of Hobo's ears so he couldn't turn his head, and that way forced the dog to look into his eyes.

"Lithen, Hobo," said the boy earnestly. "I told you a million time-th not to chaith animalth. Now didn't I?"

Hobo's attention wandered, but Hi-Bub continued, "You promithed me if I brought you here you would be good. Didn't you now?"

Hobo spied a chipmunk a few feet away and tried to get his head free, but Hi-Bub held him fast.

"Now, I'm gonna give you one more chanth," said the youngster, his pose almost touching Hobo's. "If you are bad again—well, you better hadn't!"

Either Hobo was impressed, or else he was awfully comfortable right where he was sitting. As Hi-Bub walked away, he didn't move a muscle.

I was noticing something about Hi-Bub that was somewhat disappointing to me. His lisp was disappearing. In fact there was considerable difference in his speech since I had first met him many months ago. Then one had to listen closely to understand his words. Now, while the lisp slipped, in fairly of ten, it didn't come with its former regularity. He even called me "Sam Cammel," with a very clear hissing s. It is a foolish and unfair notion we grownups have that leads us to want little ones to stay little and to continue childhood ways. Such things as Hi-Bub's lisp are so precious it is even hard to be philosophical when they disappear. But I soon learned that the lisp was present in full force whenever Hi-Bub was excited.

"Tham Cammel, Tham Cammel," came his cry from somewhere back among the young balsam trees. "Come quick, Hobo won't th-top."

I rushed to the spot to find the dog digging frantically with his front feet, sending sand and gravel flying all over the place. Hi-Bub was tugging at his ears and scolding him, but making no impression.

"He'th after Patty Thauthage," cried Hi-Bub, much distressed. "Patty ran down thith hole. Th-top it, Hobo, th-top it, I tell you."

Hobo didn't stop until I picked him up and set him to one side. Then he kept his eye on that hole in the ground ready to make a dash for it the moment the pressure of my restraining hand ceased.

"Don't worry, he could never dig far enough to get Patty," I assured Hi-Bub. "It was a good thing Patty ran, though. I'm afraid you will have to give Hobo another scolding."

Hi-Bub did, in the conventional manner. He pushed down at the usual place and forced the dog into a sitting position. Then he took both ears as before and looked right into the dog's eyes as he delivered his reprimand. Again Hobo sat still as if much impressed. He gave a side glance at the hole in the ground, but since nothing was coming out of it he let it alone. Cheer, the redwing, came flying over, and lighted in a tree near Hi-Bub. Hobo looked up as much as to say, "If I only had wings I'd give you a run for your money too." He sat still, however, while Hi-Bub went on the run for peanuts to share with Cheer.

I stood near Hobo so I could watch him. The funny little mongrel amused me greatly. He had a mind of his own, and he used it. He knew full well what was expected of him, but he didn't intend to be any more obedient than was absolutely necessary. With some object in mind he got up and walked briskly for a few steps. Then he discovered me watching him, and he sat down again. I looked away as if I were paying no attention to him. He got up and walked cautiously toward some bushes. When I turned my head toward him, he sat down. Hi-Bub called to me to come and see what Cheer was doing. I went, forgetful of the dog. While we were both giving our full attention to the strutting and beautiful red-winged blackbird, there began suddenly a fierce scrambling through the leaves accompanied by frantic squeaks and savage barks. There went Stubby the chipmunk sailing through the leaves, over logs, around rocks, with the wildly excited Hobo after him. Hi-Bub joined in the chase. I ran after Hi-Bub. For a few minutes the island was in an uproar. Giny came out of the cabin to take part in our frantic calling of "Hobo, Hobo !" Hobo yelped and barked until he couldn't hear us—and he didn't want to anyway. Stubby managed to keep ahead in the chase, yelling frantically in his own way for the police, fire department and the national guard. The rumpus didn't end until Stubby maneuvered into one of his underground retreats. Hobo promptly started another shower of sand and gravel as he tried to follow the little creature into the earth. I picked up the irate dog and set him to one side, rather forcefully I fear.

The expression on Hobo's face made Giny and me laugh in spite of our anger. He knew he had done something against our wishes, but his sorrow was only because he had been caught. When he glanced at us his ears fell flat to his head, and he wore a contrite expression. When he looked at the chipmunk hole, his ears stood up and he simply glared. He was breathing hard, and his tongue was hanging out till it nearly touched the ground. But he was not exhausted or sorry-he was just restrained, that was all.

Hi-Bub gave him another and more forceful lecture. I thought maybe the correction should be more severe, so I suggested we put Hobo in a large wire cage, where we had kept baby animals at various times. We tried this, but not for long. I didn't know so much noise could come out of anything the size of Hobo. He yelped, he barked, he whined, he howled. He caused everything on the island to start yelling too. The red squirrels sat in the trees above him and scolded their best. Chipmunks chirped at him. Blue jays screamed. Crows joined in the melee. Even Cheer abandoned his usual friendly attitude and uttered shrill cries at the irritating pup. Finally, for the peace of the community, we had to let him loose. Hi-Bub felt sure he would be a good dog now. "He feelth bad," said the boy. "I guess he doesn't know better."

Hobo did seem somewhat more agreeable now. He came up for our petting, acting as happy as if he were nobly forgiving us for all he had done.

I took Hi-Bub for a lesson in tree identification. He was really becoming a fine student. So far his interest in nature had been based on the fact that he loved it. He was sensitive to the beauty of the world, and certainly in sympathy with living things. Now to this he must add a knowledge of his surroundings lest the mere enthusiasm be insufficient.

"First, the pine trees," I said as we went on the trail to begin our study. "So many people think that all trees which have needles for leaves are pine trees. Most of such trees are evergreens, but pines are just part of the evergreen family."

"Uh huh," said Hi-Bub.

"Now there are three important pine trees in the northwoods," I went on.

"Thith northwoods?" said Hi-Bub. "Yes."

"That's nice," he commented.

Then I pointed out specimens of the red, white and jack pines. He learned to know them by their long needles. The jack pine has two needles in each cluster, and so does the red pine. However, the needles of the red pine are longer and straighter than the jack pine's. I pointed out the flat scaly bark of the red pine.

"Now the white pine has five needles in a cluster," I said, indicating a small specimen of this important northwoods tree. "That is easy to remember," I continued.

I held a cluster before him. "There is one needle for each letter in the word white."

"Huh?" said Hi-Bub.

"You know how to spell white, don't you?" "W-h-i-t e," he spelled carefully.

"That's right," I said. "There are five letters and here you see five needles in this cluster from the white pine.

See, w-h-i-t-e." I emphasized the point by indicating a needle with each letter.

"Did the tree grow five needles just because it wuth a white pine?" asked Hi-Bub.

"No, Hi-Bub-it just happens that way," I said. "It helps us remember, doesn't it?"

"Remember what?"

"Why, remember what I just told you?" "You mean how to spell white?"

"No, I mean how many needles a white pine has."

"Huh? How many does it have?"

"Why, five."

"Five what?"

"Needles-you know, leaves."

"Why?"

I don't know where this conversation would have ended if at that moment Hobo hadn't found a new way to get in trouble. We heard an explosion of yipes and barks not far ahead. Hi-Bub and I hastened to the scene of action.

"Oh-I hope he isn't after Th-tubby again," mourned Hi-Bub as we approached the spot.

Hobo wasn't after Stubby. He had found a creature that wasn't so easily chased. We saw him a hundred yards ahead of us barking his best at a dark furry cluster not more than four feet from his nose. "It'th a baby bear!" cried Hi-Bub.

"Oh, oh—I only wish it were," I exclaimed, realizing an awful truth. "Hobo, come here. Don't do that, you scamp, or you will be sorry."

"What ith it?" panted Hi-Bub.

"It is our porcupine, Hi-Bub," I declared. "See his quills? Hurry, we must save him."

"The porcupine?"

"No—Hobo !"

Hobo did not want to be saved. He saw us coming and undoubtedly remembered how we had spoiled his sport previously. This time he was going to get his job done before we reached him. He moved closer to the porky, barking more furiously.

It is generally known that a porcupine cannot shoot or throw his quills. However, I find few students of nature realize how quickly this strange animal can move, and how deadly is a blow from his needle-filled tail. Hobo didn't know this either. I tried my best to reach him in time, but I was too late. Right up to the porcupine he went, ready to sink his teeth in the creature. There was a sharp mixup during which the porky suddenly whirled and with his tail slapped Hobo right on the end of his nose. Such a cry of anguish I never heard from a dog before. All the fight was taken out of Hobo. With a nose full of those torturing quills he went slinking and howling through the brush. The old porcupine calmly climbed a tree and went to sleep.

I sought the disillusioned and suffering Hobo. No longer was he the cocky, chase-everything tyrant he had imagined himself to be when he arrived. He was a whimpering, pathetic little figure, head hanging low. Even his tail had lost its permanent wave.

"You are in for it, Hobo," I said as I took him up. "There's no way I can save you the punishment you brought on yourself."

"Tham Cammel," cried Hi-Bub, trying to pet his pal. "Tham Cammel, what do we do? What do we do?"

"We take the quills out, Hi-Bub," I said. "It isn't easy. We must take a pair of pliers and pull them out."

We cut the ends off the quills to let the air out of them. We also poured vinegar over them to soften them a bit. Yet even this doesn't help much. The quills of a porcupine are sharp as needles. They are barbed so that after they have entered the flesh it is difficult to withdraw them.

We all held Hobo as best we could. The poor pup realized we were doing our best for him. He yelped but

he made no effort to run away. I pulled the spines out one at a time—one, two, three, four, five....

"There is number six, Hobo," I said to the trembling creature. "Wish we didn't have to do this to you, but there is no other way. I wonder if you are honest enough to admit to yourself that you had this coming. Easy now, here is number seven."

"Yipe," cried Hobo.

"Sometimes, Hobo, before we learn better we let our conceit run away with us," I went on, reaching for the next quill with my pliers. "We think we are smart. You may be sure, Hobo, whether you are man or dog, if you think you are smart you are pretty dumb. It is the surest sign you aren't smart if you think you are. Steady nowhere comes number eight."

"Yow-o-o-o-o-o-o!" went Hobo.

"The trouble is, when we think we are smart we imagine we have a right to chase and push other people around. We get mean and inconsiderate. That is the way you were today, Hobo. You were plain mean. You abused those that were smaller than you. You thought you were sort of a king and had a divine right to do as you pleased. Number nine."

"Yip, yip," moaned Hobo.

"You dogs are not the only ones who make that mistake, Hobo. Men and even nations do it. I am afraid I've done it too, though I know how wrong it is now. Sometimes boys with big muscles think they have a right to bully those who are not so strong. Sometimes girls with quick wit say mean things to those who aren't so sharp.

But, Hobo, no one gets away with it. The world isn't built that way. If one of us has more strength than another, it is so he can help the other-not bully him. Number ten."

"Yipe, yipe, yipe-oh-o-o-o-o-o-o-o," howled Hobo.

"Something always beats the bully, Hobo. You chased little chipmunks and squirrels that were smaller than you. Thought you were a big he-dog, I suppose. Thought you were brave and strong. You didn't realize it was a cowardly thing to do. Then along came a porcupine, someone that could handle you. He wasn't looking for trouble, but he could hand out plenty of it. When he struck you, you were whipped. Strange, God always has something like a porcupine in the way of a bully. Men bullies meet their matches, and they are slinking cowards when they do. Nations who try to bully the world meet their defeat too. And they howl just like you when punishment comes. Number eleven."

"Yow-o-o-o-o-o, yipe," cried Hobo.

"We ought to be good and decent in this world just for the sake of living rightly, Hobo—not because we are afraid we may bite the wrong thing and it will prove to be a porcupine. One way or another, we will be forced to do right. If we don't learn through a wish to be the way God made us, then we will be punished. Something stops us when we are on the wrong path. Number twelve."

"Arf, arf, arf," barked Hobo.

"After this you will have time to think. The world forgives a wrong very quickly—if we change our ways. We know what is right, don't we, old top? The way you looked up at me when I caught you chasing chipmunks showed you knew that was wrong. Well, if you want to live in a right way from now on, no one will remember this against you. But if you don't, you may be sure you will get into trouble again. Number thirteen."

Hobo used all his doggy vocabulary now. Thirteen porcupine quills buried deeply in the tender flesh about his nose! It was a severe lesson for Hobo. I believe he learned something through it. During the rest of his stay, he seemed to hesitate even to chase a fly off his tail.

As the time neared for Hi-Bub to return to his home, he said suddenly, "Oh, I forgot."

"You forgot what?" Giny asked.

"I forgot the letter."

"What letter?"

"This one," he said, drawing a much mussed envelope from his tiny pocket.

It was a letter from Tony's mother to Hi-Bub, sent with the request that he let us read it. Tony was doing nicely, she said. He was trying hard to be happy and to get well. "He would like a picture of Cheer," the letter ran. "I wonder if Mr. Campbell has one he could send. I feel sure Tony will be able to come to the northwoods this year if it won't be too much trouble for Mr. Campbell. It would be for only a week. If it is not convenient please do not hesitate to tell us. Tony won't be too disappointed. But if he may come it will mean so much to him."

Of course Tony would receive a picture of Cheer. We had one in natural color, showing the lovely bird with his wings beautifully spread.

"And you may tell Tony we want him to come, Hi-Bub," I said. "I expect it should be later in the summer when it is sure to be warm. I tell you what let's do," I said with sudden inspiration. "You come out when Tony does and stay right here so we can all have fun together. Will you ask your father and mother if you may do that?"

"They said yeth," replied Hi-Bub casually.

ONE OF those first days we went over to check up on Old Charley, the cantankerous black bear. We found the bed he had used for his hibernation. In the hollow of the overturned stump was evidence that he had been there for a long time. Leaves and cedar bark were found in goodly quantities pressed down by the weight of a heavy body. We found samples of his black hair sticking to his bed. However, Old Charley was not around, and he hadn't been at this place for many days. Loose sand bore none of his tracks. The bag of food we had left hanging from a tree limb had been discovered, torn to shreds and its contents taken. No doubt that had been Old Charley's breakfast.

While we didn't see him, others did, and there was no lack of news about him. On our trips to the village we found the whole countryside buzzing with Old Charley stories. That bear had launched himself out on an endless Halloween. The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker—as well as the garage man, postmaster, storekeeper and banker all had grievances against our bear.

"How do they know it is Charley doing all this?" asked Giny one day after we had been listening to tales of his breaking into cabins, raiding clotheslines and frightening people. "Surely this might be the work of several bears.

"There's no mistake about it now," I answered. "I tried to defend him that way but it didn't work. Last year one bullet fired at him came pretty close to ending his career. It nipped off a large part of his left ear. Now he is known by that mark."

Anyway, Old Charley did things differently from other bears. He wasn't just in search of food, he was out to have a good time. A big, six-hundred-pound playboy—that was Old Charley.

We met some acquaintances in town who were in desperate frame of mind. They had just returned from a trout fishing trip—much earlier than was planned. Four of them had camped at a favorite spot along a fast-flowing stream. It was a secret haunt of theirs and for years they had gone there to open the trout season. Things went wonderfully well with them for a few hours. Trout were striking furiously. The breezes that blew across their camp carried tantalizing odors of frying fish, ham and bacon as well. They had the world to themselves. No one knew of their secret camping place—roads were far away and everything was heavenly. That is, until one morning when a big black bear stuck his head out of the brush on the stream bank opposite their camp and sniffed at the aroma coming from their savory breakfast.

At first the men were thrilled at the sight, then they were puzzled, and at last not a little disturbed. The bear acted strangely. He saw them but he wasn't frightened. He didn't run away, he just stayed there and sniffed. In fact, he surveyed the stream, looking for an easy crossing. His actions suggested that he would look with favor on an invitation to join the men at breakfast. They lacked hospitality, however, and showed this fact plainly. They shouted at him, cordially inviting him to go elsewhere. They beat on pans and threw rocks-but the bear simply stayed and sniffed.

"Maybe he can't hear us," suggested one of the men. "One of his ears is gone."

"He hears all right," said another, a bit discouraged. "He just doesn't care a hang."

The men were late getting to their fishing that morning, for the bear with one ear stood around watching them and, as one of them said, "A fellow doesn't feel like doing much when a bear is acting like that." At last Old Charley (it was he) disappeared into the brush and the men breathed more easily. There was the feeling, though, that they had not seen the last of the unwelcome visitor.

A few hours later two of them were wading and fly-fishing in some rapids, having very good luck, when suddenly out of the brush a short distance upstream came Old Charley. Nothing could ever convince those two men that the creature did not deliberately destroy their fishing. He was bent on being plain mean. He looked at them for a moment, then perhaps recalled their inhospitality of the morning. They told of the fiendish grin that came on his face and the flash of mischief in his eyes. Out into the stream he went about two good casts above them, beating the water with his huge paws, racing about the shallows in high glee, rolling and bathing, and in general doing everything that would frighten a trout out from under its dorsal fin!

The men stood and stared hopelessly. Old Charley looked at them for a moment in merciless satisfaction, then took up his capers with fresh energy. He was having a wonderful time. The men waded ashore. It was the wise and the only thing to do, for there were no more trout in that rapids and there was a bear there. They couldn't catch the one and didn't want to be caught by the other. A few stones were thrown at the bear and a few uncomplimentary names called his way, but he paid no attention to either. When he was sure the trout were scattered to the far corners of the stream bed, Old Charley went bounding away.

"He stopped long enough to give us the most insulting grin I ever saw," one of the men declared. "Apparently he was plumb tickled with what he had done."

That night the campers didn't have enough fish for a full dinner, but they decided to cook up what they had and finish the meal with bacon and eggs. One of the party was elected to clean the few fish available. He went some distance from camp to a spot that had been used for the purpose before. He had forgotten his knife, and went back to the tent to get it, leaving the fish on a log. When he returned, there sat Old Charley eating them, "smacking his lips and grinning from the ear that wasn't there to the one that was." The man's outburst of shouting brought the others on the run. Then all of them stood helplessly and watched their dinner consumed. Old Charley was in his glory. Here was poetic justice. That morning they had eaten breakfast while he looked on drooling. Now he was the gourmand, they the jealous spectators. In all his experience he had never obtained fish so easily. Usually he had to wait a long time beside a lake or stream until one swam close enough that he could snatch it and toss it up on shore with his paw. But these trout were already tossed up—plenty of them—and they were fresh.

The fishermen ate just bacon and eggs that night, while Old Charley probably curled up somewhere in the woods licking his chops in memory of his wonderful meal.

Relations between the campers and the renegade bear became worse hourly. "That one-eared scoundrel set out to ruin our whole fishing trip—and he did it!" said one of the victims. There was no humor in his vote.

Charley became bolder and bolder, they said. The men waded the stream above and below the camp in an effort to carry on their fishing. But they were never in any one spot long before out of the brush would come their grinning heckler. Certainly Charley was determined that their catch should be reduced to a minimum. He would sail into the waters near them, beating and splashing about, chasing every swimming thing halfway to the ocean. "The only redeeming feature," commented one of the men who had retained a fragment of his sense of humor, "was to see the joy he got out of what he was doing. I couldn't help laughing at the hilarious way he acted, even if I was the victim."

Old Charley seemed to know intuitively where the fishermen would be. One day they would go upstream from the camp. Charley would be there. Then they would go downstream. He would be there too. Then they divided their party, two going upstream, two downstream, for they reasoned Charley couldn't be both places at once. This was good logic, and there was fine fishing that day. It was the last day in camp, however. In fact, there was very little camp left when they returned. Charley had chosen this time to call on them, and finding no one in the tent, he entered without knocking. Probably his woods diet had been a little monotonous, and he hankered for a change-say to ham or bacon.

The campers had taken the precaution of swinging a packsack out of reach from the limb of a tree. But smoked meats had been around the tent long enough that everything smelled of them, and so Old Charley busied himself looking through everything. He did a job which, in the matter of thoroughness, would be a credit to the FBI. He broke into every pack and package in that tent, scattered the contents about the floor, ate what he liked and deliberately mistreated what he did not like. He hadn't quite finished his work when the men came back and interrupted him. Hence he had to depart in haste, for they were really mad now and one of them grabbed an ax. "Come on and fight like a man, you black so-and-so," shouted the frenzied fisherman, jumping up and down and waving his weapon. "I'll skin you alive!"

Charley surely thought the man meant it, and so he raced for the tall timber-dragging the entire tent with him for fifty yards!

After this, the men packed up and went home. Charley had literally chased them out of the woods. Had there been a gun in camp no doubt the bear's hide would have been stretched on someone's barn door, but this was not the hunting season and the men had no firearms.

"I'll know him if I ever see him again," declared the most irate of the fishermen. I think he was a little irritated by my smiles. "I'll shoot him loose from his other ear, so help me I will."

I could hardly blame him, yet I didn't want anything to happen to Old Charley. His wild and free spirit and his sense of humor—sadistic as it was—endeared him to our hearts. Really, I think the community loved him too, for though there were more threats against his life than ever were directed at Jesse James, the stories were told with a chuckle and there was a definite joy evident that the bear lived on. At least, it gave the people of the region material for conversation apart from the weather. I believe that in Old Charley many found a chance to live by proxy the kind of life most people want to live-wild, free of inhibitions, with a liberal mixture of joy and danger.

One story was told us by its victim, who showed unmistakable satisfaction that Charley lived on, even though he had made every effort to bring the bear's career to an end. At this man's farm near a main highway there was considerable stock. Cattle and horses were put out at pasture a half mile from the house. The farmer noticed that he was not getting so much milk as he expected and also that his horses were exceedingly tired and inefficient at their work. He tried a change of diet for his animals, but it had no effect.

Then he chanced to be down at his pasture late one night and noticed a strange thing. Cows and horses were galloping about wildly. It was no mere spasm of uncontrollable energy that caused them to run—something was chasing them. He hurried to the edge of the field where he could see better. With the aid of a full moon he was able to make out a huge dark form running in among his stock, keeping them constantly on the move. It was a bear!

Back to the house the farmer went, to return with his gun, for he feared the bear was striving to make a kill. He held his fire, however, because the animal was so close to the horses and cows that he could not get clear aim at him. Then he observed something extraordinary. The bear was not trying to catch the cows and horses. He would race after the animals and overtake them, but when this was accomplished he would turn his attention elsewhere and take out after other stock. Apparently his desire was just to keep them on the run. Never would he permit them to stand still. If a group pulled up in a corner of the field breathless and panting, he came on the double-quick to start them going again.

The farmer watched this for nearly an hour. Then he fired several shots into the air. Obviously the bear knew the meaning of this sound, for he disappeared into the darkness.

The next night he was back doing the same thing, and again the next and the next. He would not let those farm animals rest.

The farmer made every effort to get a shot at him. True, it was not hunting season, but there is no law on the statute books which says one must stand by and see his horses and cows play tag with a bear until they can't work or produce milk.

The game warden came to help corner this marauding bear. Once at dawn they caught a fairly good look at him. They could see plainly that one ear was missing—it was Old Charley.

Now the farmer was desperate. He didn't want to kill the bear, but something had to be done. Together with his neighbors he formed a posse. One night they placed themselves at convenient points so that the whole approach to the field was covered by waiting riflemen. They waited long and futilely. While they stood in silence to spring their ambush, they heard a wild noise arise from the pigs and chickens back near the house. It persisted so long that the farmer went to investigate. There went Old Charley racing away into the night, after giving the barnyard residents a chase they would never forget.

Then Charley, thoroughly successful and triumphant, visited this farm no more, while the community wondered where he would strike next.

There were other stories about Old Charley, plenty of them. Some were true, some were not, yet as in the previous autumn he was blamed for everything that was wrong. Giny was halfway between tears and laughter as we talked about him.

"Maybe the old fellow hears all this gossip and thinks he may as well do his best to be his worst," she commented, and added with concern, "He can't get away with it for ever.

"Perhaps we could bribe him to stay back in the Sanctuary," I suggested. "If we kept enough of his favorite food near his old feeding station he might be content."

"It's worth a trial anyway," agreed Giny. "And it does seem to be the only thing we can do that offers any promise of forestalling a tragedy."

So plans were made to feed Old Charley out of the mess he had made for himself, and to prevent him from degenerating into a rug on someone's floor. His cafeteria where he had been released was to be put in service again, offering him everything from ham bones to honey—if only he would stay back in the woods and let people alone.