With the Winter Birds. 249 



turtle-hunters, old Asa Thornbush. I happened to 

 find him sitting in a sheltered nook, dreaming the 

 morning hours away in the delightfully warm winter 

 sunshine. As I approached he looked up, nodded, 

 and then looked away, over the broad expanse of 

 lowlands and the shining river that sparkled as it 

 hurried by its well-wooded shores. Although I was 

 unnoticed beyond the most formal recognition, I sat 

 down near him without breaking the silence for a 

 few moments, and then ventured to ask him of what 

 he was thinking. 



'* Of other times than these, lad, w^hen the country 

 wasn't so worn out," he rephed, and continuing, after 

 a brief pause, ''there's nothin' much left now but 

 the bare ground. No huntin', fishin', or goin' after 

 tortles. It was as much fun as work when I was a 

 lad, and no comin' back empty-handed, neither." 



I was glad that the old man mentioned ''tortles," 

 for I thought immediately of the old story, and 

 asked him if he had ever caught a king turtle. 



" Ketch him !" he exclaimed. " Why, lad, there's 

 only one, and nobody ever ketched him. I've seen 

 him, though." 



" Then, won't you please tell me when and where ?" 

 I asked. 



Old Thornbush looked at me with an uncomfort- 

 ably searching glance, as if to determine why I 

 asked, and then remarked, — 



" It was well on to forty years ago. I was down 

 at the big bend o' the creek, where the elms hang 

 over the water, baitin' snapper hooks, and I heard, 



