ANNE OF GREEN GABLES COUNTRY 177

“ Did she run again?”

“ Certainly did. She ran from Rustico to Charlotte- town—twelve mile.”

“What became of it then?"

“She stayed in Rustico in a granary for years on exhibition. The cannon is still dere. I saw de ting go . . .” he ended his description contentedly, and went on with his vegetables.

I wonder if the old auto ever looked with envy at his modern grandchildren with their shining faces, climb- ing the hills that made him shudder. Or did he solace himself in the company of the old Model T’s and repeat to them over and over again the story of his début. Poor old car! His final resting-place was not a museum where silly tourists would point to him and laugh. That would have been too cruel. His aged and worn frame could never have stood up under ridicule. What if his constitution were weak, his aged frame quivering with age, his eyesight gone. His cylinders were still right. He was a pioneer! And with that recollection, the old car glowed happily.

And up the hill the scampering run-abouts rush and toot their way. “Honk, honk . . .l” Another car whizzes by. This modern age. But the old car slumbers on, dismantled and forgotten.

Over on the old Colonel Rolling estate are two ancient cemeteries. The oldest is quite safe from molestation, for it is a pirate’s hiding—place? Safe? Quite! The pirates’ spirits hover around their treasure, and when any venturesome party dares to attempt their spade work—a swishing of wings is heard, there is a doleful noise, and as the intruder takes to his heels, he hears behind a coarse laugh and the rattle of