142 PASTORAL DAYS. 



A deserted nest now hangs across our pathway, and as I look upon 

 the cold heap within its hollow, I wonder where are the little birds that 

 nestled beneath the mother's wings in the cosy warmth of that cradled 

 home only a few short months ago. And now I am reminded that nearly 

 all this land through which we have been strolling belongs to Nathan 

 Beers ; for there's his house right across the road, only a few rods in front 

 of us. I cannot help but laugh as I look over into that old door-yard 

 at the incident it recalls. 



I remember how, about fifteen years ago, I came up through these 

 very woods into the clearing where we stand, and saw old Nathan, with 

 slouched straw hat and stoga boots, entering his front gate. He was 

 muttering and gesticulating to himself ; and on the gravel behind him 

 he trailed along a huge steel trap and clinking chain. He evidently 

 had a strong opinion on some subject, and I knew pretty well what that 

 subject was. 



" Hello, Nathan !" I ask, " what's up ?" 



He turns quickly, and I observe that his usually good-natured Yankee 

 face now wears a troubled expression. 



" My dander's up — that's what's up," he replies, a little sullenly. 



" They tell me you've been after a fox, Nathan ; did you catch him ?" 



" No, 'n I don't cal'late to try agin nuther, he's airnt his liviif fer all 

 me f and with an impetuous fling he sent the old trap into a corner of 

 the wood-shed. 



I am soon by his side, anxious to hear all about it. " What's the fox 

 clone ?" I ask, eagerly. 



" What hain't he done, yeu better say. I never see nuthin' t' beat it 

 since uz born, 'n I've ketched tew er three on 'em afore naow, teu. I've 

 heern tell o' them critters' cunnin', but I swaiou I alliz thort ez haow 

 folks wuz coddiii ; but thar, yeu can't tell me nuthin' 'baout foxes. It's 

 nigh cum a fortnit thet I've been arter thet feller, 'n I swar teu gosh all 

 hemlock ! I hain't got so much 's one on his pesky red hairs teu show 

 for't, 'n I'm sick on't. I tell ye that ar feller is mischicvoiiscr than pizen, 

 'n his heel's as long as a horse's." 



" Why, what's he been doing, Nathan ?" 



" Doiii ? why fer considerable of a spell back he's bin hangin' raoun' 

 my hen-roost an' pickin' off my brammys ; thet's what he's bin doin', 'n 

 the fust time I sot the trap I stuck it under some chaff in the hole 

 yender in the hen-haouse jest arter the hens hed gone ter roost — cal'latin' 



