The Boy Patrol Around the Council Fire. Ellis Edward Sylvester

rays well out on the lake, but in no other direction could be noted a sign of life.

      “Every one of the byes, not forgitting Scout Master Hall, are there, for the ones that wint out in t’other canoe must have gone back while I was at the docther’s. They know where I wint so they won’t be worrying about me, which they wouldn’t be likely to do annyhow,” he added with a touch of his natural whimsicality, “if they didn’t know anything about me at all, at all.”

      No sound reached the intently listening ears, except that deep almost inaudible murmur which is never absent in a stretch of forest or near the ocean.

      “I’ll try it awhile, but if Mike Murphy knows his own heart, which he thinks he do, he isn’t going to sit in this steamboat many more – whisht!”

      From a point not fifty feet distant shot out a canoe, like an arrow driven from a bow. In it a single man was seated and vigorously swinging the paddle. He had emerged from under the overhanging limbs and sped southward, absolutely without any noise at all. Mike was so startled by the apparition that he stared breathless for a minute, nor did his wits fully come back until the craft and its occupant were swallowed up in the gloom.

      Not only was the unexpected appearance of the canoe startling, but the recognition of the Master of Woodcraft who drove the boat forward like a skimming swallow, added to the amazement of Mike. Beyond a doubt he was Uncle Elk. He was so near when he first darted in view that there was no possibility of mistake.

      “I wonder ef I’m Mike Murphy or a big fool or jest both,” muttered the youth, when able to pull himself together. “I lift Uncle Elk in his cabin studying his primer or spelling book, and now he is in this part of the world.”

      After a moment’s reflection the youth added:

      “Which the same may be said of mesilf, so that don’t count. It looked to me as if he was heading for the bungalow and an interisting question comes before me: being that I obsarved him, did he return the compliment and obsarve me?”

      After turning the question over in his mind, Mike said to himself:

      “If I kaap at this much longer I’ll go clean daft, as Jimmy Hagan did whin he tried to whirl his two hands in opposite directions at the same time. Can it be I’m mistook?”

      He sniffed the air several times and was convinced that he caught the odor of a burning cigar which could not be far off, else the nose would not have detected it when no wind was blowing.

      “Uncle Elk doesn’t smoke, leastways I niver obsarved him doing the same, and if he did he ain’t here, so the perfume can’t be projuiced by him.”

      He now ventured to draw his canoe nearer shore, by gently pulling the overhanging bough. It was blankly dark all around him, the foliage shutting out the star gleam, so that he had literally to feel his way. Suddenly there was a slight jar, proving that the bow had touched shore. He paused to consider whether anything was likely to be gained by leaving the craft. While it seemed almost certain that Uncle Elk had come to this lonely spot to meet some one, there was no obvious way by which Mike could assure himself on the point.

      He still noted the aroma of the cigar, which he judged to be a pretty fair specimen of the weed, though he was so accustomed to the pipe of his father that he was a poor judge.

      “The spalpeen can’t be fur off,” concluded Mike still gently sniffing, “and begorra! he isn’t!”

      The exclamation was caused by the sound of a voice, not in speaking, but in chortling, as if pleased over something. The sound was so near that had there been the least illumination Mike must have seen the one from whom it came. Then a second person – as the peculiar sound proved – joined in the ebullition, the two so near together that otherwise the listener would have thought the laugh came from one.

      “It’s them tramps!” was the thought of the startled Mike; “though one of ’em wouldn’t be smoking a cigar unless he stole it or Uncle Elk had give the same to him.”

      It was unpleasant thus to associate the hermit with the pestiferous vagrants with whom the youth had had much trouble already. He waited for the strangers to speak, but they did not seem to care to do so. Once he thought he saw the glowing end of the cigar, but was probably mistaken, for a second look failed to reveal it, nor did either of the men laugh again.

      With a feeling akin to disgust, Mike stealthily worked his canoe from under the overhanging boughs and set out on his return to the clubhouse.

      CHAPTER V – Concerning Certain American Trees

      As Mike Murphy approached the landing he saw the second canoe drawn up the beach, which was proof that his friends had returned from their excursion to the western end of the lake. The bright light from the main room of the clubhouse showed that the Boy Scouts were gathered there and he decided to go in.

      The night was so mild that no fire burned on the broad hearth, but the suspended lamp filled the apartment with a soft illumination which served almost as well as midday. Jack Crandall, the hero of the broken leg, sat in his invalid chair in front of the fireplace and at his side was Uncle Elk. Jack had been listening to the reports of his young friends who had been investigating trees, but were mostly interested in bird lore. The comments which Jack made on the written notes as read to him showed that he was the best informed of any of the Scouts concerning birds. He cleared up many doubts and answered questions so intelligently that the venerable Instructor in Woodcraft complimented him.

      Mike came through the open door so silently that none of the boys noticed him. No chair being available, he sat down on the floor, as the majority had already done. He was near the entrance and aimed to avoid observation, but as Uncle Elk from his position faced him it was probable he noticed the lad, as did Jack Crandall, who also fronted that direction.

      The reports and the comments thereon having been finished, the old man was speaking:

      “To make satisfactory progress in acquiring knowledge,” said he in his low, musical voice to which all listened with alert interest, “you must do so systematically. In our tramp through the woods the other day we picked up a good deal of information, but it was haphazard. We talked of trees as we came across them, but it was fragmentary and ten times as much was left unlearned as was learned. I am glad to know that your Scout Master has followed the right course in directing your study of our native trees, not alone in Maine but as far north as Canada, westward to the Rockies and down to the northern boundaries of the Southern States. The subject is too vast for us to cover in one evening or in a dozen evenings. Let us rather summarize. We shall put our wits together and see how many families we can name, without giving the different species under each. The first is the magnolia family, of which there are four varieties, while under the custard apple there is but one, the papaw. Now let me hear from you.”

      Nearly an hour was spent during which scarcely a boy in the room kept silent. The pleased old man nodded his head and finally raised his hand for quiet.

      “I believe you have mentioned about all. Now, while Isaac jots down the names at the table, let’s try to evolve something like order therefrom. Are you ready?”

      Isaac Rothstein nodded and held his lead pencil over the paper. Here is the list upon which all finally agreed:

      Magnolia, custard-apple, linden, rue, ailantus, holly, staff-tree, buckthorn, rose, pea, sumach, maple, horse chestnut, heath, honeysuckle, dogwood, ginseng, witch hazel, ebony, olive, begonia, laurel, mulberry, elm, plane-tree, walnut, birch, beech, willow, pine, yew and oak.

      “None of you has seen all of these,” continued the old man, “but I hope you will have the opportunity of studying their peculiarities sometime. To illustrate what a rich treat is before you, we shall give a few minutes’ attention to the oak family, concerning which you may think I had considerable to say the other day. Let me show you how much was left unsaid.

      “Most persons think of the oak as a slow grower. This is true of two or three species but not of the family. The majority need a hundred years to attain perfection and they rarely bear acorns until twenty years old. The acorn requires no protection in order to mature, and those that are not eaten by wild animals or trodden under foot do their