"Oh, yes, tell us a story about a coon—no, about a panther—no, a bear. Oh, yes, about a bear! about a bear!" cries the boy, "about a bear!"
"Poor, half-wild children!" sighs John Logan. "Nothing to divert them, their little minds go out, curiously seeking something new and strange, just, I fancy as older and abler people's do in larger ways. Yes, I will tell you a story about a bear. And let us sit down; my long walk has tired my legs;" and he looks about for a resting place.
"Oh, here, this mossy log!" cries Stumps; "it's as soft as silk. You will sit there, and I here, and sister there."
John Logan leans his gun against a tree, hanging his pouch on the gun.
"Yes, I will sit here—and you, Carrie?"
"Here. Oh, John Logan, I just fit in."
One of Logan's arms falls loosely around Carrie, the other more loosely around Stumps.
"Yes, it's a nice fit, Carrie—couldn't be better if cut out by a tailor."
Carrie, swinging her feet, and looking in his face, very happy, exclaims:
"Oh, John Logan! Don't hold me too tight—you might hurt me!"