MONNEHAN. 165 



the copse where I paused to take breath, 

 my father with his pitchfork standing clost 

 to the cow path below the brush, while a 

 little further away and a little closer to the 

 house stood Mr. Monnehan, club in hand 

 and ready for the raging bear. 



Suddenly I heard the brush break and 

 crackle over in the direction of my brother. 

 I dropped on my knee and cocked my gun. 

 I got a glimpse of something black tearing 

 through the brush like a streak, but did not 

 fire. 



Then I heard my brother shout, and I 

 thought I heard him laugh, too. Just then 

 there burst out of the thicket and on past 

 my father and his pitchfork a little black, 

 razor-backed sow, followed by five black, 

 squealing pigs! Monnehan's bear! 



