AMERICAN ORNITHOLOGY. 117 



But no game came in range, — and not even an old track was found in 

 the snow to give encouragement. Every hour brought him nearer to the 

 settlement and his chances were rapidly growing less and less, but the 

 Virgin's promise stilJ buoyed him up, and the goddess Hope still spurred 

 him on. 



He needed no sun in the heavens to tell him it was past mid-day and 

 that night would soon be at hand. He worked back toward the top of the 

 divide where he hoped he might find some game yarded. He followed the 

 crest of the hill with all the patience and skill of the most ardent still 

 hunter, — every sense keen, alert, tense. But no pleasing sight of game 

 rewarded his efforts. His heart sank within him. 



Must he go home empty-handed.? The afternoon was well spent and 

 he had now but few miles to go. 



But what a Christmas eve for the proud 

 Sabattis! Fate, as cruel as stern, had deprived 

 him of his fresh meat and Christmas good cheer. 

 The day was spent and night was at hand. • ''"" 



There was no use to hunt longer. He would go home. 



The relation of his adventure will at least tell the tale of his success, 

 and his fortunate escape will break the force and dull the edge of the cruel, 

 crushing disappointment. With tired footsteps and a heavy heart Sabattis 

 slowly descended the sloping hillside and in the 

 early twilight he was again upon the ice of the 

 Sebasticook. The ice along the shore was safe 

 but occasional reaches of open river were dis^ 

 cernible where the current was swift. 



He hastened on, — but was it the haste of de- 

 spair.? Sabattis would have said no! He will yet succeed; he cannot 

 now see how, — but somewhere, somehow. "Sabattis will succeed!" 

 "Sabattis will succeed!" kept ringing in his ears,— and to him the promise 

 was as real as life itself. 



The twilight of early evening deepened into the darkness of night and 

 he hurried on. 



The great full moon rose resplendent in the east, and the outlying 

 cabins of the village came into view. Already the windows of the little 

 chapel are aglow with light, as loving hands of old and young make it 

 more beautiful with a wealth of fragrant evergreen as a fitting decoration 

 for the midnight Mass which is soon to usher in the feast of the Nativity. 

 The open channel in the river swept in close to the shore. 

 But hark! what music is that in the air.? The honking honking of a 

 flock of wild geese on their way to their winter home in southern waters 

 fell like sweetest music upon the ear of Sabattis. He crouched low in the 



