132 THE SPRING OF THE YEAR 



unless followed immediately by another hour of 

 the same. 



On the road to the village one day, I passed a 

 fox-hunter sitting atop an old stump. It was about 

 seven o'clock in the morning, 



" Hello, Will ! " I called, " been out all night?" 



"No, got here 'bout an hour ago," he replied. 



I drove on and, returning near noon, found Will 

 still atop the stump. 



"Had a shot yet?" I called. 



" No, the dogs brought him down 'tother side the 

 brook, and carried him over to the Shanty field." 



About four o'clock that afternoon I was hurry- 

 ing down to the station, and there was Will atop 

 that same stump. 



"Got him yet?" I called. 



"No, dogs are fetching him over the Quarries now" 

 and I was out of hearing. 



It was growing dark when I returned; but there 

 was Will Hall atop the stump. I drew up in the road. 



"Grown fast to that stump, Will?" I called. 

 " Want me to try to pull you off?" 



" No, not yet," he replied, jacking himself pain- 

 fully to his feet. "Chillin' up some, ain't it?" he 

 added shaking himself. " Might 's well go home, I 

 guess" when from the direction of Young's Mead- 

 ows came the eager voice of his dogs; and, waving 

 me on, he got quickly back atop the stump, his 

 gun ready across his knees. 



