Just as he reached the coloured thing and stooped to seize it, a sharp "Tzip, tzip!" and a rustling of stiff feathers startled him. Looking up, he saw a bright-eyed brown bird running hither and thither before him, trailing one wing on the ground as if unable to fly. It was such a pretty bird! And it seemed so tame! The Kid felt sure he could catch it. Grabbing up the crimson toadstool, and holding it clutched to his bosom with one hand, he ran eagerly after the brown bird. The bird, a wily old hen partridge, bent on leading the intruder away from her hidden brood, kept fluttering laboriously on just beyond his reach, till she came to a dense patch of underbrush. She was just about to dive into this thicket, when she leaped into the air, instead, with a frightened squawk, and whirred up into the branches of a lofty birch near by.

Bitterly disappointed, the Kid gazed up after her, still clutching the bright toadstool to his breast. Then, by instinct rather than by reason, he dropped his eyes to the thicket, and stared in to see what had frightened away the pretty brown bird.

At first he could see nothing. But to his sensitive little nerves came a feeling that something was there. Gradually his eyes, accustoming themselves to the gloom, began to disentangle substance and shadow. Then suddenly he detected the form of a gray crouching animal. He saw its tufted ears, its big round face, with mouth half open grinningly. Its great, round, pale, yellow green eyes were staring straight at him.

In his fright the Kid dropped his toadstool and stared back at the gray animal. His first impulse was to turn and run; but, somehow, he was afraid to do that—afraid to turn his back on the pale-eyed, crouching shape. As he gazed, trembling, he saw that the animal looked like a huge gray cat.



At this thought he felt a trifle reassured. Cats were kind, and nice to play with. A big cat wouldn't hurt him, he felt quite sure of that. But when, after a minute or two of moveless glaring, the big cat, never taking its round eyes from his face, began to creep straight toward him, stealthily, without a sound, then his terror all came back. In the extremity of his fear he burst out crying, not very loud, but softly and pitifully, as if he hardly knew what he was doing. His little hands hanging straight down at his sides, his head bent slightly forward, he stood helplessly staring at this strange, terrible cat creeping toward him through the thicket.

* * * * *

Sonny, meanwhile, had grown uneasy the moment the Kid climbed through the bars into the pasture. The Kid had never gone into the pasture before. Sonny got up, turned round, and lay down in such a position that he could see just what the child was doing. He knew the little one belonged to Joe Barnes; and he could not let anything belonging to Joe Barnes get lost or run away. When the Kid reached the edge of the woods and stood looking through the fence, then Sonny roused himself, and started up the pasture in a leisurely, indifferent way, as if it was purely his own whim that took him in that direction. He pretended not to see the Kid at all. But in reality he was watching, with an anxious intentness, every move the little one made. He was determined to do his duty by Joe Barnes.

But when at last the Kid wriggled through the fence and darted into the gloom of the forest, Sonny's solicitude became more personal. He knew that the forest was a place of many strange perils. It was no place for the Kid. A sudden fear seized him at thought of what might happen to the Kid, there in the great and silent shadows. He broke into a frantic run, scrambled through the fence, picked up the little adventurer's trail, and darted onward till he caught sight of the Kid's bright curly head, apparently intent on gazing into a thicket. At the sight he stopped abruptly, then sauntered forward with a careless air, as if it was the most ordinary chance in the world that he should come across the Kid, away off here alone.

Instinctively, under the subtle influence of the forest silence, Sonny went forward softly, on his toes, though anything like stealth was altogether foreign to him. As he crept up, he wondered what it was in the thicket to keep him so still. There was something mysterious about it. The hair began to rise along Sonny's back. Then, a moment later, he heard the Kid crying. There was no mistaking the note of terror in that hopeless, helpless little sound. Sonny did not need to reason about it; his heart understood all that was necessary. Something was frightening the Kid. His white teeth bared themselves, and he darted forward.

At this instant there came a crackling and swishing in the thicket; and the Kid, as if released from a spell, turned with a scream and started to flee. He tripped on a root, however, and fell headlong on his face, his yellow curls mixing with the brown twigs and fir needles. Almost in the selfsame second a big gray lynx burst from the green of the underbrush and sprang upon the little, sprawling, helpless form.

But not actually upon it. Those outstretching, murderous claws never actually sank into the Kid's flesh. For Sonny was there just as soon as the lynx was. The wild beast changed its mind, and attack, just in time to avoid being taken at a serious disadvantage. The rush of Sonny's heavy body bore it backward clear of the Kid. The latter scrambled to his feet, stifled his sobs, and stared open-mouthed at the sudden fury of battle which confronted him.

Had Sonny not been endowed with intelligence as well as valour, he would have fallen victim almost at once to his adversary's terrific, raking hind claws. But fortunately, during his pugnacious puppyhood he had had several encounters with war-wise, veteran cats. To him, the lynx was obviously a huge and particularly savage cat. He knew the deadly power of its hind claws, with all the strength of those great hind quarters behind them. As he grappled with the screeching lynx, silently, after the fashion of his bull ancestors, he received a ripping slash from one of its armed fore paws, but succeeded in fixing his grip on the base of the beast's neck, not far from the throat. Instantly he drew himself backward with all his weight, crouching flat, and dragging the enemy down with him.

In this position, Sonny, backing and pulling with all his strength, the spitting and screeching cat was unable to bring its terrible hinder claws into play. The claws of the beast's great fore paws, however, were doing cruel work on Sonny's back and sides; while its long fangs, pointed like daggers, tore savagely at the one point on his shoulder which they could reach. This terrible punishment Sonny took stoically, caring only to protect the tender under part of his body and his eyes. His close grip on the base of the animal's neck shielded his eyes, and, according to the custom of his tenacious breed, he never relaxed his hold for a moment, but kept chewing in, chewing in, inexorably working his way to a final, fatal grip upon the throat. And not for a moment, either, did he desist from his steady backward pull, which kept the foe from doubling upon him with its hind quarters.

For several minutes the furious struggle went on, Sonny, apparently, getting all the worst of it. His back and shoulders were pouring blood; while his enemy showed not a hurt. Then suddenly the gray beast's screeching took on a half strangling sound. With its mouth wide open it ceased to bite, though its fore paws raked and clawed more desperately than ever. Sonny's relentless hold was beginning to throttle. His mouth was now too full of long fur and loose skin for him to bite clean through the throat and finish the fight. But he felt himself already the victor.

Suddenly, as he continued that steady backward drag, the resistance ceased. The lynx had launched itself forward in one last convulsive struggle to free itself from those strangling teeth at its throat. For a second or two Sonny felt himself overwhelmed, engulfed, in a vortex of rending claws. In a tight ball of hate and ferocity and horror the two rolled over and over in the underbrush. Sonny, doubled up hard to protect his belly, heard a shrill cry of fear from the Kid. At the sound he summoned into his strained nerves and muscles a strength beyond the utmost which he had yet been able to put forth. His jaws worked upward, secured a cleaner grip, ground slowly closer; and at last his teeth crunched together. A great shudder shook the body of the lynx. It straightened out, limp and harmless.

For perhaps a minute Sonny maintained his triumphant grip, shaking the foe savagely. Satisfied, at last, that he was meeting with no more resistance, he let go, stood off, and eyed the body with searching suspicion. Then he turned to the Kid. The Kid, careless of the blood and wounds, kissed him fervently on the nose, called him "Poor Sonny! Dear, good Sonny!" and burst into a loud wailing.

Knowing that the one thing now was to get the Kid home again as soon as possible, Sonny started, looking back, and uttering a little imperative bark. The Kid understood, and followed promptly. By the time they reached the fence, however, Sonny was so weak from loss of blood he could hardly climb through. The Kid, with blundering but loving efforts, helped him. Then he lay down.

At this moment the voices of Joe and Ann were heard, shouting, calling wildly, from the yard. At the sound, Sonny struggled to his feet and staggered on, the Kid keeping close beside him. But he could manage only a few steps. Then he sank down again.

The man and woman came running up the pasture, calling the Kid; but the latter would not leave Sonny. He trotted forward a few steps, and stopped, shaking his head and looking back. When Joe and Ann came near enough to see that the little one's face and hair and clothes were splotched with blood, fear clutched at their hearts. "My God! what's happened to him?" gasped Ann, striving to keep up with her husband's pace. But Joe was too quick for her. Darting ahead, he seized the little one, lifted him up, and searched his face with frantic eyes. For all the blood, the child seemed well and vigorous.

"What's it mean, Kid? Ye ain't hurt—ye ain't hurt—tell me ye ain't hurt, Kid! What's all this blood all over ye?" he demanded breathlessly.

By this time Ann was at his side, questioning with terrified eyes.

"Tain't me, Unc' Joe!" protested the Kid. "I ain't hurted. It's poor Sonny. He's hurted awful. He killed the great, big—great, big—" the Kid was at a loss how to explain, "the great, big, dreadful cat, what was goin' to eat me up, Sonny did."

Joe Barnes looked at the dog, the torn sides, streaming red wounds, and bloody muzzle. Woodsman that he was, he understood. "Sonny!" he cried in a piercing voice. The dog raised his head, wagged his stump of a tail feebly, and made a futile effort to rise.

Gulping down something in his throat, Joe Barnes handed the child over to Ann, and strode to Sonny's side. Bending over him, he tenderly gathered the big dog into his arms, holding him like a baby. Sonny reached up and licked his chin. Joe turned and hastened back to the old gray house with his burden.

"Come along, mother," he said, his voice a little unsteady. "You'll have to look out for the Kid all by yerself for a bit now. I reckon I'm goin' to hev' about all I kin do, a-nursin' Sonny."

THE END



SIX STAR RANCH

Another success by the author of the wonderful GLAD Books:

"Pollyanna: The GLAD Book"

"Pollyanna Grows Up: The Second GLAD Book"

With frontispiece in full color from a painting by R. Farrington Elwell and six spirited drawings by Frank J. Murch. Bound uniform with the POLLYANNA books in silk cloth, with a corresponding color jacket, net $1.25; carriage paid $1.40

The year we published POLLYANNA, THE GLAD BOOK, we published another book by the same author, but as it is contrary to our policy to issue two books by one writer in a year, we published the second book under the pseudonym "Eleanor Stuart."

As we are not going to publish a new book of Mrs. Porter's this year, we have decided to announce the publication of SIX STAR RANCH under the name of its real author. The success of her previous books is practically unparalleled in the history of American publishing, POLLYANNA: THE GLAD BOOK, having already sold 300,000 copies—an average of more than 100,000 copies for three consecutive years—and POLLYANNA GROWS UP: THE SECOND GLAD BOOK, having sold nearly 150,000 copies in nine months.

SIX STAR RANCH is a charming story, in the author's best vein, of a dear little Texas girl, who plays "the glad game" made famous by POLLYANNA, and plays it with a charm which will put her on the same pinnacle, side by side with POLLYANNA.



THE VIOLIN LADY

A Sequel to "The Fiddling Girl" and "The Proving of Virginia"

By Daisy Rhodes Campbell

Frontispiece in full color from a painting by F. W. Read, and six black and white illustrations by John Goss, decorative jacket, net $1.25; carriage paid $1.40

This new story continues the adventures of the once little Fiddling Girl and tells of her triumphs and hardships abroad, of her friends, her love affairs, and finally of Virginia's wedding bells and return to America. The previous two books in this series have been pronounced excellent and uplift stories, but "The Violin Lady" is far ahead of both in interest and charm.

The press has commented on the author's previous stories as follows:

"A delightful story told in a charming manner. The Page Company does a real service indeed in the publication of so many of these excellent stories."—Zion's Herald, Boston.

"A thoroughly enjoyable tale, written in a delightful vein of sympathetic comprehension."—Boston Herald.



THE GIRL FROM THE BIG HORN COUNTRY

By Mary Ellen Chase

12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated by R. Farrington Elwell, net $1.25; carriage paid $1.40

At the beginning of the story, Virginia Hunter, a bright, breezy, frank-hearted "girl of the Golden West," comes out of the Big Horn country of Wyoming to the old Bay State. Then "things begin," when Virginia,—who feels the joyous, exhilarating call of the Big Horn wilderness and the outdoor life,—attempts to become acclimated and adopt good old New England "ways."

Few stories reveal a more attractive heroine, and the joyous spirit of youth and its happy adventures give the story an unusual charm.

"The book has natural characters, fresh incidents, and a general atmosphere of sincerity and wholesome understanding of girl nature. Virginia may well become as popular as 'Miss Billy' or irresistible Anne."—New York Sun.



SYLVIA OF THE HILL TOP

A Sequel to "Sylvia's Experiment, The Cheerful Book"

By Margaret R. Piper

12mo, cloth decorative, with a frontispiece in full color, decorative jacket, net $1.25; carriage paid $1.40

In THE CHEERFUL BOOK Sylvia Arden proved herself a messenger of joy and cheerfulness to thousands of readers. In this new story she plays the same role on Arden Hill during her summer vacation and is the same wholesome, generous, cheerful young lady who made such a success of the Christmas Party. She befriends sick neighbors, helps "run" a tea-room, brings together two lovers who have had differences, serves as the convenient bridesmaid here and the good Samaritan there, and generally acquits herself in a manner which made of her such a popular heroine in the former story. There is, of course, a Prince Charming in the background.

"The SYLVIA books should be read by all the exponents of POLLYANNA of THE GLAD BOOKS," says Mr. H. V. Meyer of the American Baptist Publication Society.



Selections from The Page Company's List of Fiction

WORKS OF ELEANOR H. PORTER

POLLYANNA: The GLAD Book (340,000)

Cloth decorative, illustrated by Stockton Mulford. Net, $1.25; carriage paid, $1.40

Mr. Leigh Mitchell Hodges, The Optimist, in an editorial for the Philadelphia North American, says: "And when, after Pollyanna has gone away, you get her letter saying she is going to take 'eight steps' to-morrow—well, I don't know just what you may do, but I know of one person who buried his face in his hands and shook with the gladdest sort of sadness and got down on his knees and thanked the Giver of all gladness for Pollyanna."

POLLYANNA GROWS UP: The Second GLAD Book

Cloth decorative, illustrated by H. Weston Taylor. Net, 1.25; carriage paid, $1.40

When the story of POLLYANNA told in The Glad Book was ended a great cry of regret for the vanishing "Glad Girl" went up all over the country—and other countries, too. Now POLLYANNA appears again, just as sweet and joyous-hearted, more grown up and more lovable.

"Take away frowns! Put down the worries! Stop fidgeting and disagreeing and grumbling! Cheer up, everybody! POLLYANNA has come back!"—Christian Herald.

The GLAD Book Calendar

THE POLLYANNA CALENDAR

(This calendar is issued annually; the calendar for the new year being ready about Sept. 1st of the preceding year. Note: in ordering please specify what year you desire.)

Decorated and printed in colors. Net, $1.50; carriage paid, $1.65

"There is a message of cheer on every page, and the calendar is beautifully illustrated."—Kansas City Star.



MISS BILLY (17th printing)

Cloth decorative, with a frontispiece in full color from a painting by G. Tyng $1.50

"There is something altogether fascinating about 'Miss Billy,' some inexplicable feminine characteristic that seems to demand the individual attention of the reader from the moment we open the book until we reluctantly turn the last page."—Boston Transcript.

MISS BILLY'S DECISION (10th printing)

Cloth decorative, with a frontispiece in full color from a painting by Henry W. Moore.

Net, $1.25; carriage paid, $1.40

"The story is written in bright, clever style and has plenty of action and humor. Miss Billy is nice to know and so are her friends."—New Haven Times Leader.

"The author has succeeded admirably in repeating so delightful a character and in making her the heroine of so many interesting and amusing adventures."—The Springfield Union.

MISS BILLY—MARRIED (8th printing)

Cloth decorative, with a frontispiece in full color from a painting by W. Haskell Coffin.

Net, $1.25; carriage paid, $1.40

"Although Pollyanna is the only copyrighted glad girl, Miss Billy is just as glad as the younger figure and radiates just as much gladness. She disseminates joy so naturally that we wonder why all girls are not like her."—Boston Transcript.

"No one can come within the charmed circle of Miss Billy's radiant personality without a vast increase of good cheer, of insistent optimism and outgoing unselfishness. She is one of the vital characters that vitalize everyone."—Christian Endeavor World.

CROSS CURRENTS

Cloth decorative, illustrated $1.00

"To one who enjoys a story of life as it is to-day, with its sorrows as well as its triumphs, this volume is sure to appeal."—Book News Monthly.

THE TURN OF THE TIDE

Cloth decorative, illustrated $1.25

"A very beautiful book showing the influence that went to the developing of the life of a dear little girl into a true and good woman."—Herald and Presbyter, Cincinnati, Ohio.

THE END