80 WILD SCENES AND WILD HUNTERS. 
huge trunks vaulting over head 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. Occasionally 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, Riccer Trim- 
‘ bush,” chuckles a darkie, who observed us—but the couplet,— 
