“To fairyland we go,
     With a song of joy, heigh-o. 
     In dreams we’ll stand upon that shore
     And all the realm behold;
     We’ll see the sights so grand
     That belong to fairyland,
     Its mysteries we will explore,
     Its beauties will unfold.

     “Oh, tra, la, la, oh, ha, ha, ha! 
     We’re happy now as we can be,
     Our welcome song we will prolong,
     And greet you with our melody. 
     O fairyland, sweet fairyland,
     We love to sing——­”

No song could have given the intense sweetness and rollicking quality of Freckles’ voice better scope.  He forgot everything but pride in his work.  He was singing the chorus, and the Angel was shivering in ecstasy, when clip! clip! came the sharply beating feet of a swiftly ridden horse down the trail from the north.  They both sprang toward the entrance.

“Freckles!  Freckles!” called the voice of the Bird Woman.

They were at the trail on the instant.

“Both those revolvers loaded?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Freckles.

“Is there a way you can cut across the swamp and reach the chicken tree in a few minutes, and with little noise?”

“Yes.”

“Then go flying,” said the Bird Woman.  “Give the Angel a lift behind me, and we will ride the horse back where you left him and wait for you.  I finished Little Chicken in no time and put him back.  His mother came so close, I felt sure she would enter the log.  The light was fine, so I set and focused the camera and covered it with branches, attached the long hose, and went away over a hundred feet and hid in some bushes to wait.  A short, stout man and a tall, dark one passed me so closely I almost could have reached out and touched them.  They carried a big saw on their shoulders.  They said they could work until near noon, and then they must lay off until you passed and then try to load and get out at night.  They went on—­not entirely from sight—­and began cutting a tree.  Mr. McLean told me the other day what would probably happen here, and if they fell that tree he loses his wager on you.  Keep to the east and north and hustle.  We’ll meet you at the carriage.  I always am armed.  Give Angel one of your revolvers, and you keep the other.  We will separate and creep toward them from different sides and give them a fusillade that will send them flying.  You hurry, now!”

She lifted the reins and started briskly down the trail.  The Angel, hatless and with sparkling eyes, was clinging around her waist.

Freckles wheeled and ran.  He worked his way with much care, dodging limbs and bushes with noiseless tread, and cutting as closely where he thought the men were as he felt that he dared if he were to remain unseen.  As he ran he tried to think.  It was Wessner, burning for his revenge, aided by the bully of the locality, that he was going to meet.  He was accustomed to that thought but not to the complication