WARWICK WOODLANDS. 123 



denizen that has retreated, even from more remote and seem- 

 ingly far wilder fastnesses, to these sequestered haunts. I love 

 them, in that the graceful hind conceals her timid fawn among 

 the ferns that wave on the lone banks of many a nameless rill, 

 threading their hills, untrodden save by the miner, or the un- 

 frequent huntsman's foot in that the noble stag frays often- 

 times his antlers against their giant trees in that the mighty 

 bear lies hushed in grim repose amid their tangled swamps in 

 that their bushy dingles resound nightly to the long-drawn howl 

 of the gaunt famished wolf in that the lynx and wild-cat yet 

 mark their prey from the pine branches in that the ruffed 

 grouse drums, the woodcock bleats, and the quail chirrups from 

 every height or hollow in that, more strange to tell, the noblest 

 game of trans-atlantic fowl, the glorious turkey although, like 

 angels' visits, they be indeed but few and far between yet spread 

 their bronzed tails to the sun, and swell and gobble in their 

 most secret wilds. 



" I love those hills of Warwick many a glorious day have 

 I passed in their green recesses ; many a wild tale have I heard 

 of sylvan sport and forest warfare, and many, too, of patriot 

 partisanship in the old revolutionary days the days that tried 

 men's souls while sitting at my noontide meal by the secluded 

 well-head, under the canopy of some primeval oak, with imple- 

 ments of woodland sport, rifle or shot-gun by my side, and well- 

 broke setter or stanch hound recumbent at my feet. And ono 

 of these tales will I now venture to record, though it will sound 

 but weak and feeble from my lips, if compared to the rich, racy, 

 quaint and humorous thing it was, when flowing from the nature- 

 gifted tongue of our old friend Tom Draw." 



" Hear ! hear !" cried Frank, " the chap is eloquent !" 



"It was the middle of the winter 1832 which was, as you 

 will recollect, of most unusual severity that I had gone up to 

 Tom Draw's, with a view merely to quail shooting, though I had 

 taken up, as usual, my rifle, hoping perhaps to get a chance shot 

 at a deer. The very first night I arrived, the old bar-room was 

 full of farmers, talking all very eagerly about the ravages which 

 had been wrought among their flocks by a small pack of wolves, 

 five or six, as they said, in number, headed by an old gaunt 

 famished brute, which had for many )-ears been known through 

 the whole region, by the loss of one hind foot, which had been 

 cut off in a steel trap. 



" More than a hundred sheep had been destroyed during the 



