54 WARWICK WOODLANDS. 



mer noise, and by a vary gre-at de-al too, when Measter 

 McTavish sneezed me clean oot o' t' wagon!" 



"What's that?— what the devil's that?" cried I; "thia 

 McTavish must be a queer genius ; one day I hear of his 

 frightening a bull out of a meadow, and the next of hi.s 

 sneezing a man out of a phaeton." 



"It's simply true! both are simply true! We were driv- 

 ing very slowly on an immensely hot day in the middle of 

 August, between Lebanon Springs and Claverack; Mc- 

 Tavish and I on the front seat, and Tim behind. Well! 

 we were creeping at a foot's pace, upon a long, steep hill, 

 just at the very hottest time of day; not a word had been 

 spoken for above an hour, for we were all tired and 

 languid — except once, when McTavish asked for his third 

 tumbler, since breakfast, of Starke's Ferintosh, of which 

 we had three two-quart bottles in the liquor case — when 

 suddenly, without any sign of warning, McTavish gave a 

 sneeze which, on my honor, was scarcely inferior in loud- 

 ness to a pistol shot! The horses started almost oS the 

 road, I jumped about half a foot off my seat, and positively 

 without exaggeration, Timothy tumbled slap out of the 

 wr.gon into the road, and lay there sprawling in the dust, 

 while Mac sat perfectly unmoved, without a smile upon 

 his face, looking straight before him, exactly as if nothing 

 had happened." 



"Nonsense, Harry," exclaimed I ; "that positively won't 

 go down." 



"That's an etarnal lie, now, Archer !" Tom chimed in ; 

 "leastwise I don't know why I should say so neither, for 

 I never saw no deviltry goin' on yet, that didn't come as 

 nat'ral to McTavish, as lying to a minister, or" — 



"Rum to Tom Draw!" responded Harry. "But it's as 

 true as the gospel, ask Timothy there !" 



"Nay it's all true; only it's scarce so bad i' t' story, as it 

 was i' right airnest! Ay cooped oot o' t' drag — loike ivry 

 thing — my hinder eend was sair a moanth and better!" 



"Now then," said I, "it's Tom's turn ; "let us hear about 

 the bull." 



■'Oh, the bull!" answered Tom. "Well you see. Archer 

 there, and little Waxskin — you know little Waxskin, T 

 guess. Mister Forester — and old McTavish, had gone down 

 to shoot to Hell-hole — where we was yesterday, you see!-- 

 well now! it was hot — hot, worst kind; I tell vou — and I 



