stories float over it, even as mist 

 on the meadows. It is the birth- 

 place of fancy, the cradle of memory. 



A comfortable group was revealed 

 by its glow this night. 



Drawn on by deft questions from 

 Nimrod the Cap'n was spinning one 

 of his yarns about the mysterious 

 "fantail." Bobbie was cleaning a 

 gun, Sally curled up near him on a 

 rug like a contented kitten. Sommers 

 sat on his feet, whittling a stick. 



1 ' If you once caught sight of its 

 tail, you'd know the critter spreads 

 it out wide like " the Cap'n stopped 

 as a sound, curious yet quite audible, 

 broke in upon his speech. 



We all sat still listening. Thump 

 thump silence. Then thump 

 thump . It had a hollow metallic 

 sound, unusual for the woods. What 

 could it be ? Light broke across Nim- 

 rod's face. He began to laugh, silent- 

 ly. "It's that baby rabbit I got on 

 the trail to-day," he said softly, so as 

 not to disturb the noise-maker. 



The 'telescope,' a good-sized case 

 for carrying clothes, was made of 

 leatheroid, and acted as a sounding 

 board. "If there are any rabbits 



