squawks of fright, all his hens scurried to cover—though the rooster himself, consumed with curiosity, valiantly stood his ground. A black-and-white cur popped round the corner of the barn, stared for a couple of seconds as if unable to believe his eyes, then raced, "kiyi-ing" with horror, towards the cabin door, his tail between his legs.
This was by no means the kind of welcome which Mishi had been expecting, and he paused for a moment, bewildered and rebuffed.
Fortunately for him, he was still at some distance from the cabin when the small window beside the door was thrown open and the stout woman appeared at it with her husband's shotgun. She lifted the butt of the gun to her shoulder as she had seen her husband do, and pulled the trigger.
By some miracle—for the stout woman had made little attempt to aim—a couple of flying pellets grazed one of Mishi's forepaws as it waved conciliatorily in the air. At the crashing report, the clatter, the shriek, and the burning sting of the wound in his paw, Mishi bounced to his feet and went bounding away into the kindly shelter of the forest, his heart bursting with injury.
The sting in Mishi's wounded foot, as well as in his wounded feelings, now kept him going, not fast but steadily, till he had put many miles between himself and the scene of his rebuff. He
