MONNEHAN. 161

rye grass. As we advanced up the canyon,
Mr. Monnehan was dimly visible on the
high ridge to the right, and father now
and then was to be seen with little brother
and his pitchfork to the left. Suddenly
there was such a shout as almost shook
the walls of the canyon about our ears. It
was the voice of Monnehan calling from
the high ridge close above the clump of
dense wood; and it was a wild and a des-
perate and a continuous howl, too. At last
we could make out these words:

“Oi’ve thrade the bear! Oi’ve thrade the
bear! Oi’ve thrade the bear!”

Down the steep walls came father like
an avalanche, trailing his pitchfork in one
hand and half dragging little brother
James with the other.

“Run, boys, run! right up the hill! He’s
got him treed, he’s got him treed! Keep
around the bush and go right up the hill,
fast as you can. He’s got him treed, he’s
got him treed! Hurrah for Monnehan, at