MONNEHAN. 165

the copse where I paused to take breath,
my father with his pitchfork standing close
to the cow path below the brush, while a
little further away and a little closer to the
house stood Mr. Monnehan, club in hand
and ready for the raging bear.

Suddenly I heard the brush break and
crackle over in the direction of my brother.
I dropped on my knee and cocked my gun.
I got a glimpse of something black tearing
through the brush like a streak, but did not
fire.

Then I heard my brother shout, and I
thought I heard him laugh, too. Just then
there burst out of the thicket and on past
my father and his pitchfork a little black,
razor-backed sow, followed by five black,
squealing pigs! Monnehan’s bear!