WE THOUGHT that we would have to bar Hobo from the Sanctuary after his first upsetting experience. As days went by we found ourselves little inclined to enforce the rule. Hi-Bub wanted his dog pal along with him. Furthermore we found that Hobo constituted an interesting experiment for us all.

Spring was well advanced when Hi-Bub brought his pet to the island once more. Giant bullfrogs were adding their voices to the twilight harmony. Twin flowers, marsh marigolds and wild lilies of the valley were in bloom. Shore lines were highlighted with the pure white blossoms of the shadbush, hilltops wore blankets of wild cherry blossoms.

Hi-Bub was taking his lessons in nature very seriously. He was imbued with a desire to learn. No longer was he satisfied with just his impression of the wonders about him. He questioned endlessly, sometimes irksomely.

It wasn't enough now to see the chipmunks disappear into the ground and be told that this hole was their home. He wanted to know how many rooms it had, if there was a basement, a bedroom, a dining room, a back door. Hence, with great labor, we dug into one of these remarkable subterranean dwellings. Unintentionally I selected an unusually large one for investigation. It had been built by Beggar Boy, and was one of a number of such homes being used by this energetic chipmunk. By the time we had finished our digging, going cautiously so as not to cause cave-ins and observing carefully each new section off the tunnel exposed, we had followed a hole fourteen feet long.

Hi-Bub observed how the living quarters of Beggar Boy were above the lowest level of the tunnel so that water would drain properly. He looked with surprise and admiration on the cozy nest that had been made, all lined with leaves, cedar bark and bits of cloth the little builder had found somewhere. Then we came upon the granary or food-storage room of the chipmunk. This was dug to one side of the main runway and was elevated to ensure drainage. The lowest point of the tunnel was three and one-half feet below the surface. Hi-Bub had asked if there was a back door, and presently in our digging we came on his answer. The tunnel led from a main entrance beside a large rock, down to the lowest point, then rose again to emerge beneath a stump. This end of the long hole was so wonderfully concealed it would never have been discovered except by following the same course we had. Hi-Bub giggled as he realized how intelligently his little pet had planned this, so he could slyly slip out the "back door" without being seen. Then he asked the question that always comes up in the thought of anyone investigating the ways of chipmunks.

"Sam Cammel," he said, hissing a perfect S. "Where's all the dirt Beggar Boy dug out?"

"Yes, where is it, Hi-Bub?" I questioned. "If you know, I wish you would tell me, for I don't know." We estimated that nearly a bushel of dirt had been removed in digging that tunnel. Yet there was not an ounce of it to be found anywhere around either "front door" or "back door." It is one of the unsolved mysteries of nature. Of course the chipmunk must carry this dirt away and dispose of it, probably with care that none of this freshly dug earth be left to attract attention to his home. But in all my years in the forest I have never seen a chipmunk do this, and in fact I have never seen one dig a home. Furthermore, I have never met a nature student who has watched this process. Someway even Hi-Bub's explanation that "Little John Deer Foot helps them carry the dirt away" didn't satisfy, though I enjoyed it. I hadn't heard much about the 'maginary Indian boy lately and I missed him.

Giny, Hi-Bub and I searched through the book of nature, learning lines here and there, and yet feeling that in this infinite volume we would never get beyond the first chapter. We found Cheer's nest, with Mrs. Cheer sitting devotedly over four eggs that were bluish-white with black markings at the ends. Mrs. Cheer had selected a home site in a swamp where bushes grew low over still water. Here the nest would be quite safe from most creatures who prey on birds. Only the great blue heron or perhaps the crow could reach it here, and Mrs. Cheer knew well that her mate was capable of keeping such unwelcome guests away. Cheer proved this ability often. Many times during the summer we saw him fearlessly attacking such marauders, flying at them and pecking them on the back of the head until they went crying and hurrying away.

We learned, too, some fragments of the language these redwings employ. During the all-absorbing responsibility of nesting days, Cheer became extremely alert. He came regularly to our feeding station, and was always his old friendly self. But he kept giving a new, shrill cry. We concluded that this was his way of remaining in communication with Mrs. Cheer. As long as there was no response from her, he felt free to stay on. But when a similar cry came from the nest, away he went at top speed to see what was wrong. On the occasions we heard this we found there was some danger present—such as a crow, raven or heron. Cheer promptly and bravely drove them away. We noted too that Cheer carried food to his mate while she was confined by nesting.

Cheer did a cute thing the day we located his nest. Giny, Hi-Bub and I were in the cave. We knew the approximate area in which his nest would be because of Cheer's actions. Still it took quite a little searching. Mrs. Cheer flew from the nest as we drew near. She wasn't greatly frightened, however, and remained within fifteen feet of us. We looked closely at the nest, observing how wonderfully it was made, and how well selected was its location.

Then we heard Cheer's voice. As we looked up we saw him winging toward us, crying as he came. Into the air directly over our heads he flew. There, to our amusement and amazement, he put on a demonstration of flying that was remarkable. It was simply aerial acrobatics. He glided, dipped and swerved. He fluttered his wings until he held himself in one spot in midair. He talked and sang. We called to him and applauded his performance. At first I believed he was trying to draw our attention away from the nest. However, I doubt that this was true. He showed not the least fear. Several times he dropped down to rest on the railing of the canoe. Hi-Bub interpreted the occasion best, I believe. "Tham Cammel," said he, so excited the lisp was back. "I gueth Cheer ith proud because he ith a daddy."

Hi-Bub had so many things to watch. Everything was at the hatching-out stage. There were three nests of robins on the island. Along the trail leading to Vanishing Lake we found the nest of the oven bird, built on the ground. Its shape suggested a Dutch oven. We located the nest of the white-throated sparrow, the red-eyed vireo and the whippoorwill.

Then we came upon one of those oddities of nature that keep students wondering just how such things begin. In a stump near the water's edge on the south shore of our island there was a song sparrow's nest. Hi-Bub found it. Whenever he was near such delicate things as birds' nests, he was so cautious you would have thought he was walking on the eggs themselves. There was something strange about this nest, and Hi-Bub nearly pulled one of my fingers off dragging me out to see it. In it we found three of the typical song sparrow eggs-bluish-white with brown specks. The thing that puzzled Hi-Bub was the fourth egg that was in the nest. It did not resemble the others in size or color. It was fully twice as large. Its color scheme was white, with numerous markings of chestnut and burnt umber.

"Ith that gonna be a big, big thong sparrow?" he asked, utterly bewildered by the problem before him.

"'No, Hi-Bub," I said, "that's the egg of a cowbird."

"A cowbird?" he said, all ready to be amazed. "Does it give milk?"

I laughed. "A cowbird doesn't give milk, Hi-Bub," I explained. "It's seen around cows so often that name has been given it."

Then Hi-Bub learned about the strange habits of this common bird. The creature lays its eggs-from one to five-in the nests of other birds. Then it goes on about its social life, letting another mother bird hatch and rear its young. Usually when I find cowbird eggs in the nest of a smaller bird I remove them. I don't approve of this method of shifting parental responsibilities. Furthermore, the baby cowbird is so large he of ten pushes out the nest's legitimate children, and the foster mother unwittingly raises him at the loss of her own offspring. We decided we would leave this one alone, however, for Hi-Bub's education. In the days that followed this was the first place our lad visited when he came to the Sanctuary. The events of that nest fascinated him.

Hobo often held the center of the stage, however. The funny mongrel underwent a transition that amused and delighted us. We loved the homely, spirited little fellow and we wanted him around. His second visit occurred not too long after his tragic experience with the porcupine. We had decided to try him once more. Hi-Bub insisted he had talked with him and Hobo promised not to chase any animals ever again.

This promise was forgotten soon after he landed on the island. He was delighted to see us, and told us so by jumping up on us and licking our faces. He tried to say it in the usual doggy manner, though it was hard to wag that tail of his. It was so tightly curled over his back he could hardly move it. Hi-Bub said that when he did manage to wiggle his tail the end tickled his back. He knew this must be true because immediately Hobo sat down and began scratching. I fancied the itch was from other causes, but that opinion made no difference.

When greetings were finished, Hobo looked about in the usual cocky manner. I recognized the expression in his eyes and didn't like it. There was some repair work to do and I went into a shed to get some tools. When I came out I heard wild scrambling mingled with Hi-Bub's calls, "Hobo, come here ! Here, Hobo !"

Hobo at the moment was intent on giving Beggar Boy some unsolicited exercise. Bushes and small trees were bending as the chase circled about the island. Suddenly Beggar Boy emerged from the brush near me, followed by the excited dog. Hobo was much closer to the chipmunk than I liked to see, and I jumped forward to delay him. The dog glanced up at me, and immediately a complete change came over him that left me at a loss for explanation. He ceased his running. The cocky look left his face. His tail lost much of its curl and tried to get between his legs. His head bent close to the ground and he let out a mournful howl.

"What has happened?" I exclaimed in astonishment. Hobo lay flat on the ground and acted as if he would go lower if he knew how to do it. As I walked toward him, he cringed. "Hobo," I said, still puzzled, "I never treated you in any way that would make you so afraid of me. What's the matter?"

Hobo howled—the kind of cry that had been repeated so of ten during the porcupine adventure. Then I realized what was behind all this cowering. I held in my hand the very pair of pliers that had drawn out those quills. He wasn't afraid of me, but those pliers represented to him the greatest punishment he had ever known. Experimenting, I slipped the pincers into my pocket. Almost instantly Hobo's attitude changed. He rose from the ground and came to me. As I patted his head, he started looking for chipmunks or what have you. I drew out the pliers.

Down he went to the ground and emitted a pitiful howl.

Thereafter we had no doubt as to how to train Hobo. Those pliers were his absolute master. One look at them and he would cease anything he was doing and crouch to the ground. We were careful not to over-exercise this newfound power. Only when Hobo took to chasing an animal were they brought out. Immediately his chase would stop. When this was repeated a few times he came to understand that chasing something produced the threat of punishment. Then he ceased to be a bully. Within a few hours' treatment he learned he was free of the horrifying sight of those pincers so long as he remained quiet. In the beginning of this training he would look first at a chipmunk, then at the pliers. He would whine in his anxiety to make a charge. But it was as if those pliers had him by the tail, holding him back.

Within a few days there was a further transition in his attitude. The little fellow was really very sensitive to our wishes. In place of threatening him with the pliers, we began praising him for his self-restraint. When he did not chase a chipmunk or squirrel, he was a good dog and drew much petting and approval. He loved this attention. It wasn't many days before Hi-Bub was feeding Beggar Boy, Still-Mo and the others right before his nose. Hobo looked at the little creatures with an expression of delight on his face. He was completely won over. The animals of the island were no longer in danger from the dog. He had learned to love them, and in later days actually defended them when strange dogs came into the region.

Hi-Bub was immensely proud of his pet. "Hobo, you're a thwell dog," he said.

Soon came that most interesting season when the forest is one great nursery. Baby animals were everywhere. We were busy day and night observing and making notes.

Under our cabin lived three infant woodchucks. Their story was unusual. When we first arrived, there had been four adult groundhogs. Then one of them, a little motherto-be, announced that she had sole right to the island. The announcement came in the form of sudden belligerence against the others. She chased them about unceasingly. Strangely, they did not fight with her, but ran at her approach. This battle continued until three of the woodchucks departed from the island, leaving her in full possession. She then had a mighty fine home in which to rear the young. The babies had no fear of us and we had many a happy time with them.

Still-Mo, the red squirrel, had one young. It was a small family for her. The previous summer she had had three. She wasn't very proud or considerate of this youngster either. She cared for him until he was able to get about in that marvelous way squirrels have. Then she made him understand that he had to go forth into the world and seek his fortune. For several days she gave him no chance to rest. She chased him up and down trees, and round about buildings—always talking in a way that I thought was never used by a mother in speaking to her child. Finally he left the island. We saw him swim to the mainland. We found him there and fed him occasionally, but he never returned.

Cheer was so busy gathering food that he almost ran into himself coming and going from the feeding station. His nest now had four youngsters in it all with huge appetites and even larger mouths. He had little time for us during those days. There was nothing social about his calls. Formerly he had paused as if he actually enjoyed our society. Now even Hi-Bub could not coax him to stay and visit. The moment the blackbird had his beak full of food, away he went to try and appease the hunger that was always calling him. Later, as soon as the young ones could fly, he brought them to the feeding station. They were awkward things, and had to beg bites from him and Mrs. Cheer until gradually they learned to peck for themselves. Cheer brought other adult males with him too--something that surprised us, for the nesting season was still prevailing. The first one of these we saw was a yearling, a very beautiful bird which might have been from Cheer's nest the previous season. We named him Two Cheers. Then a second companion came with our pet. He was a fully matured bird with very beautiful, glossy feathers quite equal in appearance to Cheer. We named him Three Cheers.

We saw speckle-breasted baby robins following their hard-working mothers around. There were fledgling song sparrows and white-throated sparrows, with practically no tails at all, always crying for food. There were young blue jays, of whom Blooey seemed very proud, who teased incessantly for parental attention.

At this time came an interesting adventure with the cowbird that had been reared by the song-sparrow mother. He was the only one that survived in her nest, and he filled it full. The noble little mother worked her feathers bare trying to feed him and satisfy his enormous appetite. At last he left the nest. I never saw a stranger or more pathetic sight in the bird world than this large fledgling (whom we named "the Brat") following his diminutive foster parent about, beak open, wings with a babylike flutter, begging for more and more of anything. The song sparrow stuffed and stuffed bugs and seeds into that haymow of a mouth, but the begging never ceased.

Then came an experience I am grateful to have had. Giny, Hi-Bub and I chanced to be at the right spot at the right time to witness it. The song sparrow and the Brat were going about their feeding routine when there appeared on the scene a female cowbird. The newcomer approached the other two and gave a peculiar little call. The Brat looked around, obviously confused. The song sparrow brought him another mouthful and he accepted it. However, he turned his attention to the adult cowbird. She gave him a bite of some food she had gathered. He accepted it. The song sparrow returned and made another contribution, then flew a short distance away, apparently expecting the Brat to follow. However, the cowbird persisted in her call and fed him again. When she flew away, he followed her, deserting his foster mother.

I had never seen this before. I have found no one else who has. Nevertheless, we saw this cowbird win back the affections of a youngster who had been farmed out to another species.

Many questions arise. Is this the usual method of making such youngsters, raised and educated by foster parents, realize to what species they belong? Was this the cowbird that had laid the egg in the song sparrow's nest? Then do cowbirds keep track of their young, ready to reclaim them at a chosen moment? It will take more observation than we have made to answer these questions. So far, all we know is that once at least a female cowbird coaxed a young one of her own species away from a song-sparrow mother who had raised it.

Back in the forest we heard new little voices in the coyote chorus. On the animal runways we found bear tracks—some so large my hand with fingers spread fitted within the margins, others as small as though Hi-Bub had stepped there barefooted. It wasn't difficult to imagine a tremendous old black mother bear trailing along with two or three awkward and cute young ones having their first lessons at living in the forest.

On one springtime hike we chanced on a polka dot of a fawn curled up in a hollow among some ferns. Hobo was not along with us that day and it was just as well, for I had enough trouble restraining Hi-Bub. He wanted to rush up and take the beautiful creature in his arms. I actually held him back while I explained something everyone who lives in these forests should know. Fawns such as this should not be touched or disturbed. At this age they are unable to walk for any great distance. The mother leaves them in hiding while she goes in search of food. Too of ten those who do not understand think such a fawn is lost or deserted. They take it in only to find that feeding a fawn successfully is a difficult thing to do. The mother, too, suffers when the young one is gone. "Just let him alone, Hi-Bub," I said to the struggling child. "His mother will come back as soon as we are gone. You wouldn't want her to find him missing, would you?"

No, Hi-Bub didn't want to injure anything that lives. But oh, how he did want that tiny creature in his arms!

This yearning was met in a better way rather soon. One evening we visited a salt lick which we maintain under close observation on the point of the mainland nearest our island. There we saw a beautiful doe licking at the cake of salt. She was most friendly in attitude. We wondered if this might be a deer we had known as Bobette, and successfully raised from babyhood. She had been liberated in this area at the end of her first year. Thereafter, although she was not tame, we believed she remembered us and came frequently to this place. The doe now standing before us permitted us to come within thirty feet of her. She showed nervousness when we attempted to go closer, so we stayed at this distance and talked to her. Hi-Bub was having the thrill of his life being so close to a deer. Then we discovered a fawn near at hand. It was a young creature, yet old enough to walk and run well. Presently the doe turned and went into the woods. We were surprised when the fawn did not follow. It kept nibbling at buds and leaves. As we looked at it more closely we noticed it was quite thin. Our next surprise was that it permitted us to approach. I held out my hand and it took my fingers in its mouth as if it were trying to nurse.

"Giny," I said, "I believe this little fellow is hungry. I wonder if we could feed him. See if you can keep him here until I get some milk."

I went to the island and returned as quickly as possible with a baby's bottle filled with warm milk. The fawn was still there. After much coaxing we got him to accept the nipple and he drank the entire bottleful. Another was brought over and he drank that too. Then he went into the brush in the direction the doe had taken.

The next night at about the same hour Giny and I returned to the salt lick. Hi-Bub was not with us that evening. The doe and fawn were there. The older animal soon retreated into the darkness, but the fawn stayed on. We prepared some more milk and the young creature nursed as before. Then it followed the doe into the woods. This became a nightly adventure.

So many of our conclusions about nature are mere guesses. My guess this time was that the old doe was the one we had known as Bobette. This was her fawn. For some reason the doe was not able to feed the fawn properly. Maybe with recollection of her own experience at our Sanctuary, she had brought the little one there. If this was her plan, it had worked perfectly. The fawn was eating fearlessly and well-while she, the mother, stayed close at hand to guard and guide the young one.

Hi-Bub named the new member of our Sanctuary staff "Specks" because of his speckled coat. Specks became the most important citizen of our woodland colony as far as we were concerned. Hi-Bub loved him. On the island our porcupine had been losing his caution and revealing that he was truly our old pet, Salt. He would permit us to pet him and would take his dinner from our hands. Yet our conversation was principally about Specks.

Most amazing was the friendship that sprang up between Hobo and the fawn. It was a case of love at first sight. The dog advanced cautiously to the fawn while I held the pair of pliers in my pocket ready for display in case disciplinary measures were necessary. There was nothing to fear. The fawn sniffed at the dog curiously. Hobo got more wag into his crooked tail than I had seen before. He stood on his hind legs and licked Specks in the face. He whined in his delight. Then he ran back to Hi-Bub and to me, pouncing up on us as if to call attention to the lovely creature he had discovered. This was the beginning of a beautiful friendship in every sense of the word. In those evenings when Hobo was at the Sanctuary, he knew the moment we began preparing a bottle of milk where we were going. He was down by the boat before we were, whining impatiently. Once on the mainland he went on a dead run in search of his fawn friend. The old doe snorted at him on the first few visits, but soon became reconciled to this strange companionship.

When, on several occasions, we took others who were not often in our circle to see the fawn, Hobo showed a definite distrust of the strangers. He placed himself between them and his fawn until he was sure of their intentions.

"Sam Cammel," said Hi-Bub one evening after we had visited Specks.

"Yes, Hi-Bub."

"Do you know why Specks came to us?"

"Why, no, Hi-Bub-I guess I don't for sure. Do you?" "Yeth." A little lisp slipped in. I waited for his explanation.

"Well--" he hesitated and looked at me as if making sure his story would be taken at its true value-"well, Little John Deer Foot brought him!"

"Did Little John do that?" I said seriously. "Oh, I am so glad. He does such fine things."

"Yes," said Hi-Bub, pronouncing a good s. "He is awful busy now. He takes care of all the baby animals." While Hi-Bub's eyes grew heavy, I learned that the Indian boy was working day and night "and other times too," taking care of the little folk of the forest. He had to keep them from falling into the water. He had to see that they got enough to eat. He had to see that nothing hurt them. When any of them were in trouble, it was Little John Deer Foot who helped them out. So it was when Specks's mother couldn't feed Specks any more. "Little John Deer Foot took Thpecks by the ear," went on the sleepy youngster, "an' brought him to Tham Cammel." It seems that our eyes were not sharp enough to see it, but Little John Deer Foot was sitting on the cake of salt when we fed Specks. "And Little John wuth-tho-tho happy," said Hi-Bub as he bade the world good night.