Stepping into the cabin, Long Jackson said:  “If that there blame jam don’t break inside o’ twenty-four hour, the hull valley’s goin’ to be under water, an’ I’ll hev to be gittin’ ye out o’ this in the canoe.  I’ve just been uncoverin’ her an’ rozenin’ her up, an’ she’s as good as noo.  That’s a fine piece o’ winter bark ye put on to her, Tom.”

From his bunk in the dark corner beyond the stove, Brannigan lifted his shaggy face and peered wistfully out into the sunshine with sunken but shining eyes.

“I was afeard there’d be a powerful freshet after this long spell o’ thaw atop of all that rain, Long, an’ the snow layin’ so deep in the woods this winter.  I wisht ye’d lug me over an’ lay me by the door in the sun fer a bit, Long, ef ’tain’t too much trouble.  That ’ere sun’ll put new life into me bones, in case the jam don’t break, an’ we hev to git a move on.”

After this long speech, Brannigan’s head dropped wearily back on the roll of blanket that served him as pillow.  He had been desperately ill with pneumonia, so ill that it had been impossible for Long Jackson to go in to the Settlements for a doctor; and now, under Jackson’s assiduous nursing, he was just beginning the slow climb back to life.

“Think ’twon’t be too cold fer ye by the door?” queried Jackson anxiously.

“No, no!” protested Brannigan.  “It’s the sun I’m wantin’, and the smell o’ spring stirrin’ in the buds.  That’s the med’cine fer me now, Long.”

Long Jackson grumbled doubtfully, holding to the strange back-country superstition that fresh air is dangerous for sick folk.  But he yielded, as he usually did where Brannigan was concerned.  He spread blankets on the floor by the door-a little to one side to avoid the draught-then carried his partner’s gaunt form over to them, and rolled him up like a baby, with his head well propped on a pile of skins.  Then he seated himself on the chopping-log just outside the door, and proceeded to fill his pipe with that moist, black plug tobacco, good alike for smoking and for chewing, which is chiefly favoured by the backwoodsman.  Brannigan’s face, drinking in the sunshine as a parched lawn drinks rain, freshened and picked up a tinge of colour.  His eyes, long weary of the four grey walls of the cabin, roved eagerly the woods that fringed the tiny clearing.

“Anyways,” said Long Jackson between puffs, as he sucked the damp tobacco alight, “this here knoll of ourn’s the highest bit o’ country fer ten miles round, and the cabin’s on the highest p’int of it.  ’Tain’t raly likely the water’ll come clean over it, ef the jam don’t give inside o’ twenty-four hour.  But it makes one feel kind o’ safe havin’ the canoe ready.”

“Yes, it’s the highest bit o’ country fer miles round,” murmured Brannigan dreamily, soaking in the sun.  “An’ I’m thinkin’ we ain’t the only ones as knows it, Long.  Will ye look at them rabbits down yander?  Did ever ye see so many o’ them together afore?”

Jackson looked, and involuntarily laid his pipe down on the log beside him to look again.  The woods far down the slope-it was a slope so gentle as to be hardly perceptible-were swarming with rabbits, hopping and darting this way and that over the snow.  For the snow still lingered under the trees, though only a few patches of it, yellowing and shrinking under the ardent sun, remained in the open of the clearing.

After staring for some moments in silence, Jackson took up his pipe again.

“The water must be risin’ mighty quick,” said he.  “Them rabbits are gittin’ sociable all of a sudden.  They’re comin’ to pay ye a call, Tom, this bein’ yer fust day up.”

“We’ll be havin’ other callers besides rabbits, I’m thinkin’,” said Brannigan, the dreaminess in his voice and eyes giving way to a pleased excitement.  This was better than his bunk in the dark corner of the cabin.  “What’s that, now, way down behind them yaller birch trunks?” he added eagerly.  “I guess it’s a bear, Long.”

“It’s two bear,” corrected Jackson.  “So long as it’s jest rabbits, all right, but we ain’t entertainin’ bears this mornin’.  Grub’s too scarce, an’ bears is hungry this time o’ year.  Gee!  There’s two more down by the spring.  Guess I’d better git the gun.”

“Wait a bit, Long,” expostulated Brannigan.  “They’re so afeard o’ the water, they’ll be harmless as the rabbits.  No good shootin’ ’em now, when their pelts ain’t worth the skinnin’.  Let ’em be, an’ see what they’ll do.  They hain’t got no place else to go to, to git out o’ the water.”

“Let ’em climb a tree!” grumbled Jackson.  But he sat down again on his log.  “Ye’re right, anyhow, Tom,” he continued, after a moment’s consideration.  “What’s the good o’ spilin’ good skins by shootin’ ’em now?  An’ if they’re not too skeered to death to know they’re hungry, they kin eat the rabbits.  An’, anyhow, the ca’tridges is pretty nigh gone.  Come along, Mr. Bear, an’ bring yer wife an’ all yer relations!”

As if in response to this invitation, the bears all moved a little nearer, whining uneasily and glancing back over their shoulders, and close behind them could now be seen gleams of the swiftly up-creeping flood, where the sunlight struck down upon it through the leafless hardwood trees.  But around to the left and the rear of the cabin the trees were dense evergreens, spruce and fir, beneath whose shade the flood came on unseen.

As the worried bears approached, the belt of rabbits swarmed out along the edges of the clearing, the hinder ranks pushing forward the reluctant front ones.  These, fearing the open and the human form sitting before the cabin, tried to regain shelter by leaping back over the heads of those who thrust them on.  But far more than that unmoving human figure they feared the whimpering bears and the silent, pursuing flood.  So in a very few minutes the rabbits were all in the open, hopping about anxiously and waving their long ears, a few of the bolder ones even coming up to within forty or fifty feet of the cabin to stare curiously at Long Jackson on his log.

Presently from behind the cabin, stepping daintily, with heads held high and wide nostrils sniffing the air apprehensively, came two young does, and stopped short, glancing back and forth from Jackson to the bears, from the bears to Jackson.  After a few seconds’ hesitation, they seemed to make up their minds that they liked Jackson better than the bears, for they came a few steps nearer and looked timidly in at Brannigan.

“This ain’t North Fork Valley, Long.  It’s Barnum’s Menagerie, that’s what it’s gittin’ to be!” remarked Brannigan, speaking softly, lest he should alarm the does.

“Ay, an’ still they come!” said Jackson, pointing with his pipe down the slope to the right.  Brannigan lifted his head and craned his neck to see who “they” were.

They were a huge bull-moose, followed by three cows and a couple of yearlings, who crowded close upon their leader’s heels as they caught sight of the bears.  The great bull, though without antlers at this season, haughtily ignored the bears, who, as he well knew, would have small inclination to venture within reach of his battering hoofs.  The little herd had been swimming.  With dripping flanks, they stalked up through the trees and out into the clearing, the swarm of rabbits parting before them like a wave.  At sight of Jackson on his log, the bull stopped and stood staring morosely.  He was not afraid of bears, but men were another matter.  After a heavy pondering of the situation, he led the way across the corner of the clearing, then down into the flood again and off, heading for the uplands at the foot of the valley, some five or six miles away.

“He don’t seem to like the looks o’ ye, Long,” murmured Brannigan.

“No more’n I do his’n,” answered Jackson.  “But I guess he’d ‘a’ been welcome to stop, seein’ as we ain’t standin’ on ceremony, an’ our cards is out to everybody.  Come one, come all!  But, no, I bar Mr. and Mrs. Skunk.  Ye’re a soft-hearted old eejut, Tom, an’ never like to hurt nobody’s feelin’s, but I do hope now ye didn’t go an’ send cards to Mr. and Mrs. Skunk.”

Brannigan chuckled.  He was feeling better and more like himself already.

“I don’t believe they’ll be comin’,” he answered, evading the point of the invitation.  “Like as not, they’re cut off in their holes an’ drownded, ’less they’ve took to the trees in time.  They ain’t no great travellers, ye know, Long.”

“I ain’t puttin’ on no mournin’ fer ’em,” grunted Jackson.  “An’ there’s another varmint ye hadn’t no call to invite, Tom,” he added, as the rabbits again scattered in consternation, and a big lynx emerged from a spruce thicket on which the flood was just beginning to encroach.  The lynx, too frightened at the rising water to give even one look at the rabbits, glared about her with round, pale, savage eyes.  As she caught sight of Jackson, her fur fluffed up and she scrambled into the nearest tree, where she crouched behind a branch.

Brannigan spared but a glance for the terrified lynx, his interest being largely absorbed in the two does, whose trustfulness had won his heart.  Just inside the cabin door, and within reach of his arm, was a shelf, whereon stood a tin plate containing some cold buckwheat pancakes, or flap-jacks, left over from breakfast.  A couple of these he tossed to the does.  Gentle as was the action, the nervous beasts bounded backwards, snorting with apprehension.  In a few moments, however, as if coming to realize that the movement of Brannigan’s arm had not been a hostile one, they came forward again hesitatingly, and at length began to sniff at the pancakes.  For some moments the sniffing was distinctly supercilious.  Then one of them ventured to nibble.  Half a minute more, and both flap-jacks had been greedily gobbled.  Their immense, mild eyes plainly asking for more of the novel provender, the pair stepped a little closer.  Brannigan reached for another cake, to divide between them.

Long Jackson got up from his log, tapped the ashes from his pipe, and came into the cabin.

“I’ll be leavin’ ye to entertain the ladies, Tom,” said he, “while I git dinner.”

II

A cloud passing over the sun, the air grew sharply cold on the instant.  Long Jackson bundled Brannigan away from the door, and shut it inexorably.  But as Brannigan refused to be put back into his bunk, Jackson arranged him an awkward sort of couch of benches and boxes by the table, where he made his first “sitting-up” meal.  After dinner, the sun having come out again, he insisted upon the door being once more thrown open, that he might drink in the medicine of the spring air and have another look at his menagerie.

“Holy Je-hoshaphat!” exclaimed Jackson, as the door swung back.  “This ain’t no menagerie we’ve got here, Tom.  It’s a Noah’s Ark, that’s what it be!”

The two does, trembling with fright, were huddled against the wall of the cabin, close beside the door, staring at an immense and gaunt-framed bear, which was sitting up on its haunches on Jackson’s chopping-block.  More than half the clearing was under water.  Five more bears sat near the chopping-block, eyeing the water fearfully and whimpering like puppies.  Quite near them, and letting his shrewd eyes survey the whole scene with an air of lofty indifference, sat a red fox, his fur bedraggled as if from a long and hard swim.  In two compact masses, on either side of the bears and the fox, and as far away from them as they could get, huddled the rabbits, their eyes fairly popping from their heads.  Further away, standing hock-deep in the water, were half a dozen more red deer, afraid to come any closer to the bears.  In the branches of the one tree-a spreading rock-maple-which had been left standing near the cabin, crouched a lynx and a wild-cat, as far apart as possible, and eyeing each other jealously.

One of the bears, restless in his anxiety, shifted his position and came a little nearer to the cabin.  The two does, snorting at his approach, backed abruptly into the doorway, jamming Jackson against the doorpost.

“Oh, don’t mind me, ladies!” said Jackson, with elaborate sarcasm.  “Come right along in an’ set down!”

Whereupon the frightened animals, flying in the face of that tradition of the wild creatures which teaches them to dread anything like a cul-de-sac, took him at his word.  Stamping their delicate hoofs in a sort of timorous defiance to the bears, and ignoring both Jackson and Brannigan completely, they backed into the rear of the cabin, stared about the place curiously, and at length fell to nibbling the hay which formed the bedding of the bunks.

“Did ever ye see the likes o’ that for nerve?” demanded Jackson.

“They’ve got sense, them two,” said Brannigan.  “They know who’ll stand up fer ’em if them bears begin to git ugly.”

“But we don’t want the whole kit an’ calabash pilin’ in on us,” said Jackson with decision.  “An’ we don’t want to shet the door and not be able to see what’s goin’ on, neether.  Guess I’d better fix up a kind o’ barricade, so’s I kin hold the pass in case of them there fee-rocious rabbits undertakin’ to rush us.”

With a bench and some boxes, he built a waist-high barrier across the doorway, and then he arranged for Brannigan a couch on the table, so that the invalid could look out comfortably over the barrier.

“Reserved seat in Noah’s Ark for ye, Tom,” said he.

“Hadn’t ye better be fetchin’ the canoe round to the front, where ye kin keep an eye onto it?” suggested Brannigan.

“By Jing, yes!” agreed Jackson.  “If one of them slick old bears ’d take a notion to h’ist it into the water an’ make off in it, I guess we’d be in the porridge.”

He hitched his long legs over the barrier and stalked out coolly among the beasts.

The wild-cat and the lynx in the branches overhead laid back their ears and showed their teeth in vicious snarls; and the rabbits huddled so close together that the two packs of them heaved convulsively as each strove to get behind or underneath his neighbours.  The bears sullenly drew away to the water’s edge, and the huge fellow perched on the chopping-block jumped down nimbly from his perch and joined the others with a protesting woof.  The fox stood his ground and kept up his air of indifference, his native shrewdness telling him that the man was paying no heed to him whatever.  The deer also did not seem greatly disturbed by Jackson’s appearance, merely waving their big ears and staring interrogatively.  Jackson picked up the canoe and turned it bottom side up across the doorway.  Then he stepped indoors again.

About the middle of the afternoon it became evident that the water had stopped rising.  It had apparently found an overflow somehow, and there was no longer any risk of the cabin being swept away.  Tired with the excitement, Brannigan fell asleep.  And Jackson, with the backwoodsman’s infinite capacity for doing nothing, when there is nothing to do, sat beside his barricade for hour after hour and smoked.  And for hour after hour nothing happened.  When night fell, he shut the door and secured it with special care.

Throughout the night it rained heavily, under a lashing wind which drove the rain in sheets against the rear of the cabin; but soon after dawn the sun came out again and shone with eager warmth.  Brannigan awoke so much better that he was able to sit up and help himself to the doorway instead of being carried.  The two does, thoroughly at home in the cabin, swallowed the cold pancakes, and kept close to Jackson’s elbow, begging for more.

When the door was opened, it was seen that the animals had all been driven round to the front of the cabin for shelter.  The space under the upturned canoe was packed with rabbits.  But the spirit of the bigger animals, with the exception of the deer, was now changed.

Since the rise of the flood had come to a halt-for the water was at the same mark as on the afternoon of the previous day-the predatory animals had begun to forget their fear of it and to remember that they were hungry.  The truce of terror was wearing very thin.  The fox, indeed, as Jackson’s alert eyes presently perceived, had already broken it.  At the very edge of the water, as far away as possible from the cabin and the bears, he was sitting up demurely on his haunches and licking his chaps.  But a tell-tale heap of bones and blood-stained fur gave him away.  In the darkness he had stolen up to the rabbits, nipped one noiselessly by the neck, and carried it off without any of its fellows being any the wiser.  He could afford to wait with equanimity for the flood to go down.

The lynx had come down out of her tree and was crouching at the foot of it, eyeing first the bears and then the rabbits.  She turned her tameless, moon-pale eyes upon Jackson in the doorway, and bared her teeth in a soundless snarl.  Jackson, wondering what she was up to, kept perfectly still.  The next moment she darted forward, belly to earth, and pounced upon the nearest rabbit.  The victim screamed amazingly loud, and the packed mass of its companions seemed to boil as they trampled each other underfoot.  Growling harshly, the lynx sprang back to the tree with her prey, ran up the trunk with it, and crouched in a crotch to make her meal, keeping a malignant and jealous eye upon the wild-cat on her neighbouring branch.

As if fired by this example, one of the bears made a rush upon the luckless rabbits.  He struck down two with a deft stroke of his paw, dashed them to one side to remove them from the too close proximity of Jackson, and lay down comfortably to devour them.

At this second attack, the unfortunate rabbits seemed to wake up to the necessity of doing something radical.  Two or three of those nearest the cabin made a sudden dart for the door.  They jumped upon the upturned canoe, stared fearfully for an instant at Jackson, then leapt past him over the barrier and took refuge in the farthest corner of the cabin, under the bunk.  Jackson, according to his prearranged plan, had made an effort to stop them, but it was a half-hearted effort, and he shook his head at Brannigan with a deprecating grin.

“’Tain’t exackly healthy for the blame little scuts, out there with the bear an’ the wild-cats,” said he apologetically.  Jackson was quite ready to shoot rabbits, of course, when they were needed for stew; but his soft, inconsistent heart had been moved at seeing the helpless things mangled by the lynx and the bear.  Perfect consistency, after all, would be an unpleasant thing to live with in this excellent but paradoxical world.

The words were hardly out of Jackson’s mouth when the rest of the bears came stalking up, great, black, menacing forms, to levy toll upon the rabbits.  Instantly the frantic little animals began pouring in a tumultuous stream over the canoe and the barrier and into the cabin.  Seeing their dinners thus unexpectedly disappearing, the bears made a rush forward.

Jackson, fearing lest they should charge straight into the cabin, sprang for his gun, and was back in the doorway again in a flash, carelessly thrusting aside with his feet the incoming flood of furry, hopping figures, but making no effort to keep it out.

The bears, reaching the packed and struggling rear rank of the fugitives before it could dissolve and gain the refuge, captured each a victim, and drew back again hastily with their prizes, still apprehensive of the silent grey figure of Jackson in the doorway.  And in two minutes more all the rabbits were inside the cabin, covering the floor and struggling with each other to keep from being pushed too close to the hot stove.  The two does, resenting the invasion, snorted angrily and struck at them with their sharp, agile hoofs, killing several before the rest learned to keep out of the way.  One enterprising little animal sprang into the lower bunk, and was straightway followed by the nearest of his fellows, till the bunk was filled to overflowing.

“How’ll ye like it, sleepin’ along o’ that bunch o’ bed-fellers, Tom?” inquired Jackson derisively.

“Ye’ll sleep with ’em yourself, Long,” retorted Brannigan from his place on the table. “I didn’t let ’em in.  They’re your visitors.  Me bein’ an invalid, I’m goin’ to take the top bunk!”

Long Jackson scratched his head.

“What’s botherin’ me,” said he, grown suddenly serious, “is them bears.  If they take it into their heads to come in an’ board along of us, I’m goin’ to hev a job to stop ’em.  I’ve only four ca’tridge left, an’ ther’s six bear.  They’ve et ther rabbits, an’ what’s one small rabbit to a rale hungry bear?  Here’s the biggest an’ hungriest comin’ now! Scat!” he yelled fiercely.  “Scat!  You !” And he added a string of backwoods objurgation that this modest page would never consent to record.

Apparently abashed at this reception, the bear backed away hastily and glanced around at the landscape as if he had had no least thought of intruding.

Brannigan laughed as he had not laughed for weeks.

“That langwidge o’ yourn’s better’n any gun, Long!” said he.

“Guess it’s saved us one ca’tridge, that time!” he acknowledged modestly.  “But I’m thinkin’ it won’t keep ’em off when they get a mite hungrier.  Ye kin curse like an Androscoggin lumber jack, but y’ain’t goin’ to frizzle a single hair on a bear’s hide.  Now, here they come agin!  I’d better shoot one, an’ mebbe that’ll discourage ’em.  Anyhow, they kin eat the one I shoot, and that’ll keep ’em from hankerin’ so after rabbits.”

He raised his gun, but Brannigan stopped him sharply.

“Jest shet the door, ye old eejut!” he cried.  “Ye know as well as I do that ef ye git a bear rale mad, an’ he thinks he’s cornered, there’s goin’ to be trouble.  Jest shet the door, that’s all!”

“To be sure!  Why didn’t I think o’ that afore?” agreed Jackson, kicking the boxes aside and slamming the heavy door without ceremony in the face of the nearest bear, who had already lifted his fore-paws upon the canoe and was peering in wistfully at the rabbits.

With his feet in a foam of rabbits-the creatures seeming to have lost all fear of him-Jackson sat down on a box and lit his pipe, while Brannigan, leaning over from his couch on the table, tried to feed the rabbits with biscuits.  The rabbits would have none of it, but the two does, greedy and jealous, came mincing forward at once to appropriate the attention and the tit-bits.

Presently the air grew unbearably hot and close, with the reek of the crowding animals and the heat of the stove.  After the fashion of the backwoodsman, the men endured it till they were gasping.  Then Jackson went to the little window-which was not made to open-and prised out the sash with the edge of his axe-blade.  He filled his lungs with a deep breath, drew back from the window, then sprang forward again and thrust his head out for a better look.

“It’s broke!” he shouted.  “The water’s goin’ down hand over fist!”

“It’ll save a lot o’ trouble,” said Brannigan, with a sigh of relief.

By noon the water had disappeared, and the bears, the wild-cat, and the fox had disappeared with it.  After waiting another hour, that the hungry beasts might be well out of the way, Jackson opened the door and began to turn the rabbits out.  At first they refused obstinately to go, so that he had to seize them by the ears and throw them out.  But presently some sign seemed to go round among them to the effect that their enemies were out of the way.  Then they all began to make for the door, but quite at their leisure, and soon were hopping off among the trees in every direction.  After them at last, went the two does, without so much as once looking back.

“Durned if the place don’t look kind o’ lonesome without ’em!” murmured Brannigan.

“Umph!” grunted Jackson.  “It’s easy seein’ ’tain’t you that’s got to do the cleanin’ up after ’em.  If ever ye go to hev another party like that, Tom, I’m goin’ to quit.”

The spring wind, mild and spicy from the spruce forests, breathed through the cabin from the open door to the open window, and a chickadee ran over his fine-drawn, bead-like refrain from the branches where the lynx and wild-cat had been crouching.