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off on a fresh scent, trees in a hollow, and 

 sees the righting captive chopped out of it. 

 The moon drops westerly oars sound on 

 the river. Here are hunters from the other 

 bank, come to gossip, join forces, and finish 

 up the night. Now, indeed, the chase shall 

 stir your blood. They have brought six 

 good dogs. All in cry, the heavens shall 

 overflow. It is find, follow, kill the first 

 cock-crow sounds. The night has grown 

 chill, though the huntsmen do not feel it. 

 Suddenly some one shivers, with a hint of 

 chattering teeth. Make a log- fire on the 

 instant. The axemen are hewing hard at a 

 big tree that looks to have a handsome coon 

 colony. Before it falls you may warm you 

 through and through. 



And afterward. While the fire was abuild- 

 ing, somebody stole away, rifled a near pota- 

 to-patch, and has filled the fire with sweet, 

 yellow yams. The sight of them brings 

 hunger indeed. Until they are roasted, 

 eaten piping hot, no foot will stir. Not 

 even Music's or Damsel's. See how quiet 

 they lie by the fire, nose in paws, with shut 

 eyes, dreaming, no doubt, of the night's vic- 

 torious runs. Beyond, the river ripples, the 

 moon drops low and lower, frost skims the 

 leaves till they rustle underfoot. You tread 



