turn, one night, to go out and borrow a chicken from Mr. Man's roost, and coming home he fell into an old well and lost his chicken. He nearly lost himself, too, for the water was icy cold and Mr. 'Possum thought he would freeze to death before he could climb out, because the rocks were slippery and he fell back several times.

As it was, he got home almost dead, and next morning was sicker than he had ever been before in his life. He had pains in his chest and other places, and was all stuffed up in his throat and very scared. The 'Coon and the Crow who lived in the Hollow Tree with him were scared, too. They put him to bed in the big room down-stairs, and said they thought they ought to send for somebody, and Mr. Crow said that Mr. Owl | was a good hand with sick folks, because he looked so wise and did n't say much, which always made the patient think he knew something.

So Mr. Crow hurried over and brought Mr. Owl, who put on his glasses and looked at Mr. 'Possum's tongue, and felt of his pulse, and listened to his breathing, and said that the cold water seemed to have struck in and that the only thing to do was for Mr. 'Possum to stay in bed and drink hot herb tea and not eat anything, which was a very sad prescription for Mr. 'Possum, because he hated herb tea and was very partial to eating. He groaned when he heard it and said he did n't suppose he'd ever live to enjoy himself again, and that he might just as well have stayed in the well with the chicken, which was a great loss and doing no good to anybody. Then Mr. Owl went away, and told the Crow outside that Mr. 'Possum was a very sick man, and that at his time of

life and in his state of flesh his trouble might go hard with him.

So Mr. Crow went back into the kitchen and made up a lot of herb tea and kept it hot on the stove, and Mr. 'Coon sat by Mr. 'Possum's bed and made him drink it almost constantly, which Mr. 'Possum said might cure him if he did n't die of it before the curing commenced.

He said if he just had that chicken, made up with a good platter of dumplings, he believed it would do him more good than anything, and he begged the 'Coon to go and fish it out, or to catch another one, and try it on him, and then if he did die he would at least have fewer regrets.

But the Crow and the 'Coon said they must do as Mr. Owl ordered, unless Mr. 'Possum wanted to change doctors, which was not a good plan until the case became hopeless, and that would probably not be before some time in the night. Mr. 'Coon said, though, there was no reason why that nice chicken should be wasted, and as it would still be fresh, he would rig up a hook and line and see if he could n't save it. So he got out his fishing things and made a grab hook and left Mr. Crow to sit by Mr. 'Possum until he came back. He could follow Mr. 'Possum's track to the place, and in a little while he had the fine, fat chicken, and came home with it and showed it to the patient, who had a sinking spell when he looked at it, and turned his face to the wall and said he seemed to have lived in vain.

Mr. Crow, who always did the cooking, said he'd better put the chicken on right away, under the circumstances, and then he remembered a bottle of medicine he had once seen sitting on Mr. Man's window-sill outside, and he said while

over and get it, as it might do the patient good, and it did n't seem as if anything now could do him any harm.

So the Crow dressed the nice chicken and put it in the pot with the dumplings, and while Mr. 'Coon dosed Mr. 'Possum with the hot herb tea Mr. Crow slipped over to Mr. Man's house and watched a good chance when the folks were at dinner, and got the bottle and came back with it and found Mr. 'Possum taking a nap and the 'Coon setting the table; for the dinner was about done and there was a delicious smell of dumplings and chicken, which made Mr. 'Possum begin talking in his sleep about starving to death in the midst of plenty. Then he woke up and seemed to suffer a good deal, and the Crow gave him a dose of Mr. Man's medicine, and said that if Mr. 'Possum was still with them next morning they'd send for another doctor.

Mr. 'Possum took the medicine and choked on it, and when he could speak said he would n't be with them. He could tell by his feelings, he said, that he would never get through this day of torture, and he wanted to say some last words. Then he said that he wanted the 'Coon to have his Sunday suit, which was getting a little tight for him and. would just about fit Mr. 'Coon, and that he wanted the Crow to have his pipe and toilet articles, to remember him by. He said he had tried to do well by them since they had all lived together in the Hollow Tree, and he supposed it would be hard for them to get along without him, but that they would have to do the best they could. Then he guessed he'd try to sleep a little, and closed his eyes. Mr. 'Coon looked at Mr. Crow and shook his head, and they did n't

away, and pretty soon when they thought Mr. 'Possum was asleep they slipped softly up to his room to see how sad it would seem without him.

Well, they had only been gone a minute when Mr. 'Possum woke up, for the smell of that chicken and dumpling coming in from Mr. Crow's kitchen was too much for him. When he opened his eyes and found that Mr. 'Coon and Mr. Crow were not there, and that he felt a little better-perhaps because of Mr. Man's medicine- he thought he might as well step out and take one last look at chicken and dumpling, anyway.

It was quite warm, but, being all in a sweat, he put the bed-sheet around him to protect him from the draughts and went out to the stove and looked into the pot, and when he saw how good it looked he thought he might as well taste of it to see if it was done. So he did, and it tasted so good and seemed so done that he got out a little piece of dumpling on a fork, and blew on it to cool it, and ate it, and then another piece, and then the whole dumpling, which he sopped around in the gravy after each bite. Then when the dumpling was gone he fished up a chicken leg and ate that, and then a wing, and then the gizzard, and felt better all the time, and pretty soon poured out a cup of coffee and drank that, all before he remembered that he was sick abed and not expected to recover. Then he happened to think, and started back to bed, but on the way there he heard Mr. 'Coon and Mr. Crow talking softly in his room and he forgot again that he was so sick and went up to see about it.

Mr. 'Coon and Mr. Crow had been quite busy up in Mr. 'Possum's room.

They had looked at all the things, and Mr. Crow remarked that there seemed to be a good many which Mr. 'Possum had not mentioned, and which they could divide afterward. Then he picked up Mr. 'Possum's pipe and tried it to see if it would draw well, as he had noticed, he said, that Mr. 'Possum sometimes had trouble with it, and the 'Coon went over to the closet and looked at Mr. 'Possum's Sunday suit, and pretty soon got it out and tried on the coat, which would n't need a thing done to it to make it fit exactly. He said he hoped Mr. 'Possum was resting well, after the medicine, which he supposed was something to make him sleep, as he had seemed drowsy so soon after taking it. He said it would be sad, of course, though it might seem almost a blessing, if Mr. 'Possum should pass away in his sleep, without knowing it, and he hoped Mr. 'Possum would rest in peace and not come back to distress people, as one of Mr. 'Coon's own ancestors had done, a good while ago. Mr. 'Coon said his mother used to tell them about it when she wanted to keep them at home nights, though he did n't really believe in such things much, any more, and he did n't think Mr. 'Possum would be apt to do it, anyway, because he was always quite a hand to rest well. Of course, any one was likely to think of such things, he said, and get a little. nervous, especially at a time like thisand just then Mr. 'Coon looked toward the door that led down to the big room, and Mr. Crow he looked toward that door, too, and Mr. 'Coon gave a great jump, and said:

"Oh, my gracious!" and fell back over Mr. 'Possum's chair.

For there in the door stood a figure shrouded all in white, all except the head, which was Mr. 'Possum's, though very solemn, its eyes looking straight at Mr. 'Coon, who still had on Mr. 'Possum's coat, though he was doing his best to get it off, and at Mr. Crow, who still had Mr. 'Possum's pipe, though he was trying every way to hide it, and both of them were scrabbling around on the floor and saying, “Oh, Mr. 'Possum, go away - please go away, Mr. 'Possum-we always loved you, Mr. 'Possum-we can prove it."

But Mr. 'Possum looked straight at Mr. 'Coon, and said in a deep voice: "What were you doing with my Sunday coat on?"

And Mr. 'Coon tried to say something, but only made a few weak noises. And Mr. 'Possum looked at Mr. Crow and said:

"What were you doing with my pipe?" And a little sweat broke out on Mr. Crow's bill, and he opened his mouth as if he were going to say something, but could n't make a sound.

Then Mr. 'Possum said, in a slow voice, so deep that it seemed to come from down in the ground:

"Give me my things!"

And Mr. 'Coon and Mr. Crow said, very shaky:

"Oh y-yes, Mr. 'Possum, w-we meant to, a-all the t-time."

And they tried to get up, but were so scared and weak they could n't, and all at once Mr. 'Possum gave a great

himself, and not just his appearance, as they had thought. Then they sat up, and pretty soon began to laugh, too, though not very gaily at first, but feeling more cheerful every minute, because Mr. 'Possum himself seemed to enjoy it so much.

Then Mr. 'Possum told them about everything, and how Mr. Man's medicine. must have made him well, for all his pains and sorrows had left him, and he invited them down to help finish up the chicken which had cost him so much suffering.

So then they all went down to the big room and the Crow brought in the big platter of dumplings, and a pan of biscuits and some molasses, and a pot of coffee, and they all sat down and celebrated Mr. 'Possum's recovery. And when they were through, and everything was put away, they smoked, and Mr. 'Possum said he was glad he was there to use his property a little more, and that probably his coat would fit him. again now, as his sickness had caused him to lose flesh. He said that Mr. Man's medicine was certainly wonderful, but just then Mr. Rabbit dropped in, and when they told him about it, he said of course the medicine might have had some effect, but that the dumplings and chicken caused the real cure. He said there was an old adage to prove that— one that his thirty-fifth great-grandfather had made for just such a case of this kind. This, Mr. Rabbit said, was the adage:

"If you want to live forever

Stuff a cold and starve a fever."

Mr. 'Possum's trouble had come from catching cold, he said, so the dumplings were probably just what he needed.

Then Mr. Owl dropped in to see how his patient was, and when he saw him sitting up, and smoking, and well, he said it was wonderful how his treatment had worked, and the Hollow Tree people did n't tell him any different, for they did n't like to hurt Mr. Owl's feelings.

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Prominent among writers of the new realistic nature literature is Dallas Lore Sharp (1870-), professor of English in Boston University. Mr. Sharp's stories and descriptive sketches of nature reveal charming details in out-of-door life that the ordinary observer overlooks, and they encourage the reader to seek entertainment in fields and woods. Most of his nature writings are suitable for pupils in grades from the fifth to the eighth. Some of his books are Beyond the Pasture Bars, A Watcher in the Woods, Roof and Meadow, and Where Rolls the Oregon. ("Wild Life in the Farm Yard,” from Beyond the Pasture Bars, is used by permission of The Century Co., New York City.)

WILD LIFE IN THE FARM-YARD

DALLAS LORE SHARP

I want you to visit a farm where there are turkeys and geese and guineas. If you live in New York City or in Chicago you may not be able to do so for some time. Then take a trip to the market or to the zoological gardens. But most of you live close enough to the country, so that you could easily find a farmer who would invite you out to see his prize gobbler and his great hissing gander.

However, I shall not wait to send you for I am going to take you-now-out to an old farm that I loved as a boy.

where there are turkeys and geese and guineas and pigs and pigeons, cows and horses and mules, cats and dogs, chickens and bees and sheep, and a hornets' nest and a nest of flying squirrels in the same old grindstone apple-tree, and a pair of barn owls in the old wagon house, andI don't know what else; for there was everything on the old farm when I was a boy, and I suppose we shall find everything there yet.

I want you to see the turkeys. I want you to follow an old hen turkey to her stolen nest. I want you to watch the old gobbler turkey take his family to bed-to roost, I mean. For unless you are a boy, and are living in the wild portions of Georgia and the southeastern states, you may never see a wild turkey. For that reason I want you to watch this tame turkey, because he is almost as wild as a wild turkey in everything except his fear of you. He has been tamed, we know, since the year 1526, yet not one of his wild habits has been changed.

So it is with the house cat. We have tamed the house cat, but we have not changed the wild, night-prowling hunter in him. You have to smooth a cat the right way, or the wild cat in him will scratch and bite you. Have you never seen his tail twitch, his eyes blaze, his claws work as he has crouched watching at a rat's hole, or crawled stealthily upon a bird in the meadow grass?

So, if you will watch, you shall see real wild turkey in the tamest old a gobbler on the farm.

Watch him go to roost. Watch him get ready to go to roost, I should say, for a turkey seems to begin to think of roosting about noon-time, especially in the winter; and it takes him from about

noon till night to make up his mind that he really must go to roost.

He comes along under the apple-tree of a December afternoon and looks up at the leafless limbs where he has been roosting since summer. He stretches his long neck, lays his little brainless head over on one side, then over on the other. He takes a good long look at the limb. Then bobs his head-onetwo-three-four-five-six-seven-eight-nineten times, or perhaps twenty-two or three times, and takes a still longer look at the limb, saying to himself-quint, quint, quint, quint! which means: "I think I'll go to roost! I think I'll go to roost! I think I'll go to roost! I think I'll go to roost! I think I'll go to roost! I think I'll go to roost!" He thinks he will, but he has n't made up his mind quite.

Then he stretches his long neck again, lays his little witless head on the side again, bobs and bobs, looks and looks and looks, says quint, quint, quint, quint – "I think I'll go to roost," but is just as undecided as ever.

He does the performance over and over again and would never go to roost if the darkness did not come and compel him. He would stand under that tree stretching, turning, looking, bobbing, "squinting," thinking, until he thought his head off, saying all the while

One for the money; two for the
show;

Three to get ready; and four to

get ready to go!

But after a while, along toward dusk (and awfully suddenly!)—flop! gobble! splutter! whoop!-and there he is, up on the limb, safe! Really safe! But it was an exceedingly close call.