WARWICK WOODLANDS. 131 



that, more strange to tell, the noblest game of trans-at- 

 lantie 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 liills 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 — and 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 implements of wood- 

 land sport, rifle or shot-gun by my side, and well-broke 

 setter or stanch hound recumbent at my feet. And one 

 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 1 

 had gone up to Tom Draw's, with a view merely to quail 

 shooting, though I had taken up, as usual, my rifle, hop- 

 ing perhaps to get a chance shot at a deer. The very first 

 night I arrived, the old bar-room was full of farmers, talk- 

 ing 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 years 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 winter, and several calves beside; and what had stirred 

 especially the bile of the uood yeomen, was that, with 

 more than customary boldness, they had the previous 

 night made a descent into the precints of the village, and 

 carried off a fat wether of Tom Draw's. 



"A slight fnll of snow had taken place the morning I 

 arrived, and, this suggesting to Tom's mind a possibility 

 of hunting up the felons, a party had gone out and 

 tracked them to a small swamp on the Bellevale Moun- 



