"How about the horns, Joe?" asked Tom.
"There's horned owls—why shouldn't there be horned bears? Anyway, I believe it was a bear, and I shall stick to it." And to this day Joe believes—or thinks he does—that he had a very narrow escape from a ferocious bear on the banks of the Schroon.
[to be continued.]
THE IDLE HOUR
The robin sings on the topmost bough of the spreading maple-tree,
Where the cool green leaves to the whispering breeze are nodding merrily;
The sunbeams bright from the azure sky go frolicking here and there,
And the breath of the clover blossom lies sweet on the summer air,
And under the trees so restfully, where the shadows softest lie,
Like a woodland nymph in her netted couch between fair earth and sky,
Behold our dainty darling, safe hidden from friends away,
Content with the merry sunshine, the robin, and breeze to stay.