THE NIGHT-HUNT IN RECESS. 8h 
The inspiriting announcement, that Bose had tree’d at last, 
is balm to all our wounds, and we follow in the hurry-scurry 
rush to the tree. Arrived there, we find old Bose on end 
barking up a great old oak, while the other dogs lie panting 
around. “Dare he am,” says old Sambo. “Make a fire, 
niggers!’ There is but a single stump of a torch left; but 
in a little while they have collected dried wood enough to 
kindle a great blaze. 
“Which ‘nigger’s gwine to climb dat tree ?”’ says old Sambo, 
looking round inquiringly. Nobody answers. The insinua- 
tions he had thrown out, that it might be a cat, have had 
their effect upon the younger darkies. Sambo waits, in dig- 
nified silence, for an answer, and throwing off his horn, with 
an indignant gesture, he says,— 
“You d—n pack of chicken-gizzards, niggers !—climb de 
tree myself!” and straightway the wiry old man, with the 
activity of a boy, springs against the huge trunk, and com- 
mences to ascend the tree. 
Bose gives an occasional low yelp as he looks after his 
master. The other dogs sit with upturned noses, and on 
restless haunches, as they watch his ascent. 
Nothing is heard for some time, but the fall of dead 
branches and bark which he throws down. The fire blazes 
high, and the darkness about us, beyond its light, is unpene- 
trated even by the moon. We stand in eager groups watch- 
ing his ascent. He is soon lost to our view amongst the 
limbs; yet we watch on until our necks ache, while the eager 
dogs fidget on their haunches, and emit short yelps of im- 
patience. We see him, against the moon, far up amongst the 
uppermost forks, creeping like a beetle, up, still up! We are 
all on fire—the whole fatigue and all the bruises of the chase 
forgotten! our fire crackles and blazes fiercely as our im- 
patience, and sends quick tongues of light, piercing the black 
throng of forest sentinels about us. 
