Frances Webster'. 



Ralph Hearne was staying in the 

 the little town of Wychly. It 

 was a pleasant and picturesque 

 village, and several city people, friends 

 of his, were spending the hot days of 

 summer there. Ralph was a land- 

 scape painter, and had never studied 

 animal portraiture, but was now re- 

 gretting that, for nothing was heard 

 or thought of but strange beasts and 

 he expected a rare opportunity to 

 paint one. 



There had been a big show at 

 Wychly. All the barns and fences 

 proclaimed it yet, though the date 

 was four days past. It was disap- 

 pointing to read several yards of 

 trapeze performances, only to find 

 the acrobats had deftly swung them- 

 selves into the next co'unty. 



Yet the choicest, chiefest sensa- 

 tion Wychly had known was to 

 come. A lion had escaped from a 

 side show tent, or a tiger, or a puma, 

 or a mountain lion at least. To be 

 sure the showman made as little as 

 possible of the loss. The men who 

 were left behind to find it had given 

 up the search and gone. They pro- 

 fessed to feel no great respect for 

 the missing creature, but the public 

 was not to be cheated of possible 

 excitement, and more rumors were 

 flying about than would have sup- 

 plied a dozen shows, were they cage- 

 able. Some one had seen some- 



thing strange in some one's cow 

 pasture, or hiding in the boughs of a 

 tree. The uncertainty as to whether 

 the animal swam, ran, climbed or 

 crept, added to the interest and 

 opened a rich field to the imagina- 

 tion. 



Books of natural history were 

 hunted up and dusted; hunting par- 

 ties searched eagerly; evening walks 

 were shortened and a small panic 

 prevailed at Wychly. 



All this was entertainment for 

 Ralph Hearne. Nay, more, he was 

 amused to find his own nerves af- 

 fected. He no longer fancied dark 

 corners. He found himself scruti- 

 nizing doubtful shadows, and it re- 

 quired a slight effort of will to set 

 up his easel under overhanging 

 boughs without often glancing into 

 them. He had been in the big 

 woods where there were real bears; 

 and in the dangerous riots of the pre- 

 vious year, he had not been so nerv- 

 ous, though on duty with his com- 

 pany of militia. 



Just at dusk on a certain evening 

 Ralph lay in an easy chair, on the 

 piazza of the hotel, with feet in the 

 American attitude, the rings of 

 smoke from his cigar struggling up 

 to the window above, where sat 

 a young lady who grew conscious of 

 the odor although she could not see 

 the smoke. The silhouettes of dis- 



