Page:Castlemon--Joe Wayring at Home.djvu/358

 dishes had been washed in the clear waters of the pond, and the tin bucket, which contained the supply of fish for breakfast, had been hung up by a string so that the minks that were sure to come around during the night could not steal them, "tell us a story, please."

"About what?" inquired the guide, as he filled his pipe.

"Oh, about the first panther you ever shot."

"Or about the bear you killed with a club while he was running off with one of your pigs," suggested Roy.

Mr. Swan was always ready. After he had taken a few pulls at his brier-root to make sure that it was well-started he began and told not one story, but a dozen or more. He kept his little audience interested until ten o'clock, then the lamp was turned out, the fire replenished, and the campers sought their beds of balsam-boughs. Lulled by the rippling of the waves upon the beach at their feet, and by the low music of the breeze as it toyed with the branches over their heads, their slumber was deep and dreamless. Even the usually watchful Jim seemed to think that there was no