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Bob grabbed it and, before it could go out, nursed the flicker in his cupped hands, not realizing that it was burning his fingers cruelly. Carefully, yet swiftly, he carried the flame to the little pile of threads. As these caught, his heart grew light with thankfulness.,The excitement was too much for Bob. To stay still while serious events might be happening was not what he had bargained for and as soon as Feather-in-the-Wind was out of sight in the underbrush, he too started off, using the same manner of locomotion.,One hot noontide he and Eric lay on the wharf in the baking sunshine. It was not Pilot Taraldsen’s wharf near the house, but the old wharf beyond the woods.,The idea of her calling him Johnny boy! That was perfectly outrageous! What right had she to call him by that name? He had outgrown it long ago, and no one used it now except just herself. Here he would be ten years old in a fortnight, no, in twelve days—or, to be exact, twelve days and a half, and so surely he was too old for that baby name.,“Why?” Bob wanted to know.,“What’s the rumpus?” he roared. “What’s broken loose?”,To the enquiries he made of the persons he chanced to meet, favorable answers were returned for a time, but he was at length bewildered in uncertainity, and travelled for some hours in a direction which chance, rather than judgment, prompted him to take.,"It is your grand-daughter, Little Red Riding-Hood. I have brought a cake and a little jar of butter, which my mother has sent you.",“Going up river again to-day, Jerry?” asked Bob.,Pour the rich libation high;,“You poor nut! You haven’t any sense anyway!”,“He is crazy as a loon!” said Olea. But Lisa the nursemaid was more interested..