"\*. 



THE BOY-HUNTER. 49 



I long sorel J to run !— Pompoy starts ofF, I call him back ! 

 It is necessary I should be dignified— should prove to him 

 and all the world, by my unliuiTied calmness, — 



that my demerits 



May speak unbonneted to as proud a fortune 

 As this that has befallen." 



I walk slow and stately, feeling exalted by my self-denial 

 —speculating after what manner the fates are about to reward 

 me— thinking of a whole dozen of partridges, a splendid 

 male red-bird— or, it may be, a large fat pheasant, or some 

 entirely new and wondrous creatm-e, as best befitting my 

 just claims. 



We are close at hand— we can see the little tenement 

 shake— hear the heavy beat of struggling wings. Too much 

 for my stoicism is that sound ! With fluttering pulse I spring 

 eagerly forward— bah !— it is nothing but a common thievino- 



jay I 



^ I almost stagger with the revulsion of my soaring aspira- 

 tions—while Pompey proceeds to get out the poor bird with 

 sundry abusive epithets and gabbled threats of neck-wi'inging. 

 " Yah ! yah ! ole feller !— cotch at last ! Carry sticks to de 

 debbil, to make fire, burn dis child wid, will you ! Da ! now 

 you carry sticks to debbil !" and away flutters the obnoxious 

 jay's headless body over the bloodied snow. 



I have said I was not cruel, and it was a perfect agony to 

 me to witness the death of any of my prisoners— but the 

 shock of the fall of my high-flown hopes was too much for 

 me, and in this case I did not recover in time to save the 

 unlucky victim of a superstition universal among our negroes, 

 and to which, if I were not ashamed of the confessfon, I 

 might admit having been more than half inclined myself! 



But this was not all our sport on the snow, either ! If it 

 grew damp towards evening, then the cold night-winds would 



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