Frank raised his ax and rushed forward to his assistance, and cheered on the dog with a voice which, to save his life, he could not raise above a whisper.

The wild-cat crouched lower along the log, and his actions seemed to indicate that he intended to show fight.

Brave's long, eager bounds brought him nearer and nearer to his enemy.

A moment more and he could have seized him; but the wild-cat suddenly turned and sprang lightly into the air, and, catching his claws into a tree that stood full twenty feet distant, ascended it like a streak of light; and, after settling himself between two large limbs, glared down upon his foes as if he were already ashamed of having made a retreat, and had half a mind to return and give them battle.

Brave reached the log just a moment too late, and finding his enemy fairly out of his reach, he quietly seated himself at the foot of the tree and waited for Frank to come up.
"Good gracious!" exclaimed the young naturalist, wiping his forehead with his coat-sleeve, (for the exciting scene through which he had just passed had brought the cold sweat from every pore in his body); "it is a lucky circumstance for you and me, Brave, that the varmint did not stand and show fight." Then ordering the dog to "sit down and watch him," the young naturalist threw down his ax, and started toward the house for his gun.