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 Jim, what would happen if God died?’ He fired them two off at me tonight, afore he went to sleep. As for his imagination, it sails away from everything. He makes up the most remarkable yarns—and then his mother shuts him up in the closet for telling stories. And he sits down and makes up another one, and has it ready to relate to her when she lets him out. He had one for me when he come down tonight. ‘Uncle Jim,’ says he, solemn as a tombstone, ‘I had a ’venture in the Glen today.’ ‘Yes, what was it?’ says I, expecting something quite startling, but nowise prepared for what I really got. ‘I met a wolf in the street,’ says he, ‘a ’normous wolf with a big, red mouf and awful long teeth, Uncle Jim.’ ‘I didn’t know there was any wolves up at the Glen,’ says I. ‘Oh, he comed there from far, far away,’ says Joe, ‘and I fought he was going to eat me up, Uncle Jim.’ ‘Were you scared?’ says I. ‘No, ’cause I had a big gun,’ says Joe, ‘and I shot the wolf dead, Uncle Jim,—solid dead—and then he went up to heaven and bit God,’ says he. Well, I was fair staggered, Mistress Blythe.”

The hours bloomed into mirth around the driftwood fire. Captain Jim told tales, and Marshall Elliott sang old Scotch ballads in a fine tenor voice; finally Captain Jim took down his old brown fiddle from the wall and began to play. He had a tolerable knack of fiddling, which all appreciated save the First Mate, who sprang from the sofa as if he had been