MONNEHAN. 161 



rye grass. As we advanced up the canyon, 

 Mr. Monnehan was dimly visible on the 

 high ridge to the right, and father now 

 and then was to be seen with little brother 

 and his pitchfork to the left. Suddenly 

 there was such a shout as almost shook 

 the walls of the canyon about our ears. It 

 was the voice of Monnehan calling from 

 the high ridge close above the clump of 

 dense wood; and it was a wild and a des 

 perate and a continuous howl, too. At last 

 we could make out these words: 



"Oi've thrade the bear! Oi've thrade the 

 bear! Oi ? ve thrade the bear!" 



Down the steep walls came father like 

 an avalanche, trailing his pitchfork in one 

 hand and half dragging little brother 

 James with the other. 



"Run, boys, run! right up the hill! He's 

 got him treed, he's got him treed! Keep 

 around the bush and go right up the hill, 

 fast as you can. He's got him treed, he's 

 got him treed! Hurrah for Monnehan, at 



