A COMFORTABLE EVENING. 135 



little John ran in and told us that he was just come from 

 a neighbor's, who had sent out his negro to count the 

 little pigs, which a sow was bringing with her out of the 

 forest. After a little while he came in, and said gravely, 

 that he counted nineteen, but that one had run about so, 

 that he could not count him. Conwell now commenced 

 a story of his early days, in the following words : 

 "About forty years ago my parents moved into the 

 Cumberland mountains ; and as the land was good and 

 fertile, and game plentiful, a little settlement was soon 

 made. We were verj- comfortable, grew as much Indian 

 corn as we wanted, had plenty of venison, bear, and wild- 

 honey, and we could always procure powder, coffee, and 

 whatever else we wanted in exchange for our bear's fat, 

 skins, &c. : so that every one would have allowed that 

 we could not be better off, but for one circumstance that 

 embittered our existence and exposed us to numberless 

 dangers. There was a tribe of Tuskarora Indians in our 

 vicinity, who had been driven out of the north, probably 

 by the French, and who plundered and murdered when- 

 ever they "found an opportunity. Amongst other things, 

 they had stolen a number of horses, and that so cun- 

 ningly, that for a long time they eluded all our efforts to 

 trace them. The mountains ended in a bluff several 

 miles long, and from twenty to thirty feet high, so steep 

 that no bear, let alone a horse, could have descended it. 

 As soon as a horse was missed, those who went to seek 

 him examined each end of the cliff, without ever finding 

 any traces of the animal. I was then about twenty-two 

 years old, and one day I was out with my dog, and 

 such a dog I have never seen since. Old Beef here is a 



