pessimism born of the Devil's Chair and
Jack at a Pinch.

"Ours aren't!" It was the voice of the
little girl-thrush lifted in blue-jay belligerence
now. "Our boys aren't queer fish--@
not a bit!" rising to hot defense of Stud
the Stoutheart, who even in callow youth
was of opinion that Life in every phase
was a game for two--in which two, of
differing sexes, could hunt together and
make good headway.

"To be sure, they do love to get off jokes
on each other--and occasionally on us,"
went on Jessie, the brown-haired merle in
maiden form. "They have a society of
older boys in their camp called the Henkyl
Hunters' Brigade. My brother Stud--he's
a patrol leader--belongs to it. And they
go on the war-path occasionally--and
publish a bulletin about their doings."

"What's a henkyl?" Una's mouth was
wide open; upon its gusty breath rode
horned toads and plated lizards, in imaginary
solution.

[[120]]

p119 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p120w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p121

v?