80 WILD SCENES AND WILD HUNTERS. 



huge trunks vaulting over liead into the night, with here and 

 there a star shining like a gem set into their tall branching 

 capitals — while on either side we look into depths of black- 

 ness as unutterably drear to us as thoughts of death and 

 nothingness. Oh, it was in half trembling wonder then, we 

 crowded, trampling on the heels of those before, and, when 

 after awhile the rude young negroes would begin to laugh 

 aloud, we felt that in some sort' it was profane. 



But such impressions never lasted long in those days. 

 Every other mood and thought gives way to the novelty and 

 contagious excitement of adventure. We are soon using our 

 lungs as merrily as the rest. The older dogs seem to know 

 perfectly, from the direction taken, what was the, game to be 

 pursued for the night. Had we gone up by the old Field 

 where the Persimmon trees grow, they would have understood 

 that " possums" were to be had ; but as old Sambo led off 

 through the deep woods towards the swamps, it said " coons" 

 to them as plain as if they had been Whigs of 1840. 



The flush of blood begins to subside as we penetrate deeper 

 into the wood, and as we hear old Sambo shout to his staff 

 officers and immediate rear guard, " Hush dat 'ar jawing, you 

 niggers, dar," we take it for granted that it is a hint, meant 

 not to be disrespected by us, that silence is necessary, lest 

 we should startle the game too soon and confuse the dogs. 



All is silence now, except the rustle of our tramp over the 

 dried autumn leaves, and occasional patter of the feet of a 

 dog who ranges near to our path. Occasiqnally a white dog 

 comes suddenly out of the darkness into view and disappears 

 as soon, leaving our imagination startled as if some curious 

 sprite had come "momently" from out its silent haunts to 

 peep at us. Then we will hear the rustling of some rapid 

 thing behind us, and looking round, see nothing ; then spring 

 aside with a nervous bound and fluttering pulse, as some black 

 object brushes by our legs — " Nothin' but dat dog, Nigger Trim- 

 bush," chuckles a darkie, who observed us — but the couplet, — 



