For a time he was silent, save for an occasional snarl; then he sent his voice echoing belligerently across the hills. Lord Byron says, “’tis sweet to hear the honest watch-dog’s bay.” Lord Byron was, no doubt, quite sincere in the assertion. It all depends on the point of view. It is safe to assume that Lord B. did not compose that line while clinging to a bending tree-limb with the honest watch-dog baying at the exact spot upon which he would fall if the branch broke. Something must be done. The force of habit is strong. So often had Mr. Connors found it necessary to cover his movements with a cloak of silence when approaching a dwelling-house in the night time that it did not occur to him for some minutes to shout for help from within. Then he remembered that this time he was not on burglary bent. He lifted his voice in competition with that of the dog and shouted madly. * * * * * At last the door of the house opened and a timid female voice inquired who was calling and why he was calling. “It’s me,” explained Mr. Connors from his perch in the tree. The explanation was candid yet it seemed insufficient. “Who are you and what are you doing up my tree?” demanded the voice a shade more boldly. “Is dis your tree?” apologized Mr. Connors with some irony. “I didn’t get no time to ask whose tree it was.” “What are you doing up there?” “Ask your dawg,” replied Mr. Connors. “He put me here.” From the dog came a growl which entirely corroborated Mr. Connors on the point in question. The slit of light in the door remained just wide enough to permit a shawl-wrapped head to protrude. The dog fell silent. He appeared to recognize that his was now a thinking part, but he relaxed nothing in vigilance of pose. As the parley proceeded he squatted below, ominously alert, a beast couchant waiting his cue to take again the center of the stage. There was a painful pause. “Say,” suggested Mr. Connors at last, “if you’re skeered ter talk ter me, send out some of the men-folks. I ain’t dangerous. I won’t hurt ’em.” “The men-folks are all away,” replied the voice, growing timid once more, “and I guess you had better stay where you are till they get home.” “When are you lookin’ fer ’em back?” inquired Mr. Connors courteously. The branch was made of hard wood and it was a very knotty bit of timber; the length of time he might be required to occupy it was interesting. The rustic mind runs to loquacity. The woman found herself explaining in more detail than the circumstances required. “My husband is the minister. My son is the justice of the peace. They have both gone up the river, but the boat is due at the landing in an hour or so—unless it is late. You might as well wait a while and see them.” Mr. Connors groaned from the depths of his soul. In an hour or so, unless the boat was late!