THE BOY-HUNTER. 49 
I long sorely to run!—Pompey starts off, I call him back! 
It is necessary I should be dignified—should prove to him 
and all the world, by my unhurried calmness,— 
««_________. that, my demerits 
May speak unbonneted to as proud a fortune 
As this that has befallen.” 
I walk slow and stately, feeling exalted by my self-denial 
—speculating after what manner the fates are about to reward 
me—thinking of a whole dozen of partridges, a splendid 
male red-bird—or, it may be, a large fat pheasant, or some 
entirely new and wondrous creature, as best befitting my 
just claims. 
We are close at hand—we can sco the little tenement 
shake—hear the heavy beat of struggling wings. Too much 
for my stoicism is that sound! With fluttering pulse I spring 
eagerly forward—bah !—it is nothing byt a common thieving 
jay! 
I almost stagger with the revulsion of my soaring aspira- 
tions—while Pompey proceeds to get out the poor bird with 
sundry abusive epithets and gabbled threats of neck-wringing. 
“Yah! yah! ole feller!—cotch at last! Carry sticks to de 
debbil, to make fire, burn dis child wid, will you! -Da! now 
you carry sticks to debbil !” and away flutters the obnoxious 
jay’s headless body over the bloodied snow. 
I have said I was not cruel, and it was a perfect agony to 
me to witness the death of any of my prisoners—but the 
shock of the fall of my high-flown hopes was too much for 
me, and in this case I did not recover in time to save the 
unlucky victim of a superstition universal among our negroes, 
and to which, if I were not ashamed of the confession, I 
might admit having been more than half inclined myself ! 
But this was not all our sport on the snow, either! If it 
grew damp towards evening, then the cold night-winds would 
4 
