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ened the horse’s pace. About half a mile on our way I heard some one calling for help. Bert heard the call, too, and just as I was going to say “stop,”

away and
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he stopped of his own accord. We both jumped out. The noise came from a field on our right, mostly given over to blueberry bushes, but with a litt

le timber on its farther edge. “Help! Murder!” It was a high-keyed woman’s voice. “Tramps,” said Bert, as we hurried on. “Hysterics,”

said I, for I was sure I heard laughter alternating with the screams. And the laughter had a strangely familiar sound. On we ran, the screams c


ontinuing, and at last the sounds were located, that is, the screams were. They came from a low growing chestnut. Perched in its branches sat Minerva, her face the image of horror, and below on

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on, in order to see the comedy. Ethel’s perfect calmness and her amusement, but s

lightly tinged with sympathy, formed such a striking contrast to Minerva’s abject fear. Who was this he-she that was threatening Minerva’s existence? There was a rustling in the bushe

s, Minerva’s screams redoubled, and in spite of her 180 pounds she climbed still higher into the tree. And then the cause of all the

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commotion showed “himself.” A mild-looking Jersey cow, all unconscious of the agony she was causing, came into view and advanced toward Eth

el, sniffing. “Don’t you overturn our berries,” said my wife, walking toward the creature. The cow was evidently a pet, for as Ethel put out her hand to shoo her away s

he sniffed expectantly and put out her tongue in hope of receiving some little delicacy. Th

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