24 THE HIVE OF THE BEE-HUNTER. 
Gaining the ascent of a low bank, that lines the 
stream he has just deserted, he stops at the foot of a 
young beech; in the green moss that fills the interstices 
of the otherwise smooth bark is hidden away a cricket ; 
the turkey picks at it, without catching it; something 
annoys him. 
Like the slipper of Cinderella to the imagination of 
the young prince, or the glimpses of a waving ringlet or 
jewelled hand, to the glowing passions of a young heart, 
is the remembrance of that sound, that now full two 
hours since was first heard by our hero—and has been, 
in that long time, but twice repeated. He speculates 
that in the shady woods that surround him, there must 
wander a mate; solitarily she plucks her food, and calls 
for me—the monster man, impatient of his prey, doles 
not out his music so softly or so daintily—I am not 
deceived, and, by my ungallant fears, she will be won 
by another. 
Cluck.— 
How well-timed the call. The gobbler now entirely 
off his guard, contracts himself, opens wide his mouth, 
and rolls forth, fearlessly, a volume of sound for his 
answer. | 
The stream is crossed in a flutter, the toes scarce 
indent themselves in the soft ground over which they 
pass. On, on he plunges, until caution again brings 
him to a halt. We could almost wish that so fine a bird 
might escape—that there might be given one “call” too 
