out. Other hunters, no doubt all good 

 men and true ; but never envy them they 

 may have dogs, get game galore, but they 

 have not Music and Damsel, whom to fol- 

 low is a liberal education in a coon-dog's 

 points. 



The cry, the yelling, is their very breath 

 of life. How wide Music runs ! how high 

 he leaps, sniffing with lifted nose, now this 

 tree, now that. Ah ha ! Master Coon has 

 been found away from home cut off from 

 it, indeed and is making for it through 

 the tree tops. Over there he left the earth 

 ran from bough to bough, from tree to 

 tree, till he thought the trail safely broken. 

 Music knew the trick well caught the 

 scent hot in air has picked up the trail 

 where Master Ringtail came down is after 

 him hot-foot. 



A breathless scamper, truly. Away ! 

 away ! through thicket, through clear forest, 

 running, stumbling, falling, over rocks or 

 fallen timber, now resting for a minute, now 

 hasting as though life lay in speed. Ever 

 in front to guide you, the short, shrill yelp- 

 ings cutting sharp through the night, the 

 wild yelling, the deep halloo, sent back, forth, 

 from bank to bank. Now the sound of 

 axes, a dull crash, comes from the hither 



