114 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



[Mabch 35, 1880. 



I -i-cii oik: lust night, by that ar ole hollar 

 lerefl her to doath. 

 meaning ; have you any liquor? 

 ■day, but Ole Boso ho sot in and lapped all 



:rstand; I don't n 



n. whiskey. Hav 

 the last this niornln'. 

 m't had a thing si nco morning ; can't you 



In tie house. Not a tnouffull uv 



give in y horse something? 



squatter all the time fiddling the first bars of a tune over 

 and iivcr again, between each question and answer :— 



S'l'vnlhV. Ili-iU. .veins. -iV. 



T ( -in I "i-i bosraj nil nii-'hi with you? 



S. No, sirs you. .mi t aitto- 



r.-Hnv e ■ 



g.— Xolsuv 



uv it out'n thi 



and" cold and 



S.-Oh yes- 



r.-1'mhiui 

 give nie some 



Si— Hain't i 

 meat, nor adi 



T.— Well, ca 



T.— How'f.ir is ii t.. tin- next house? 



,!>'.— Strain: or : I d..nt know. I've never heenHthar. 



T — Well, do you know who Uvea hero? 



S.— Yes.zirl 



2'.— A^ I'm so hi. Ui. Ihen, what might, bo vour name? 



. -:n be Wick, and it might ho Tom; but it lacks right 

 smart uv it. 



j\_Sii- ! -will you toll me where this road goes to? 



S— It's never gom-an\ whar since I've lived here. It's always 

 thar when I git up in the moi-nln'. 



IT— Well, how tin- is it to where ltforks? 



S— It don't Cork at all. I. ui ii splits up like the devil. 



T— As I'm not likelv to get. to any other house to-night, can't 

 vou let. me sh-.p in yours; and I'll lie mv horse to a tree, and do 

 -Without itnvilnng to eat or drink? 



S._My hou<e leaks. Thar's only one dry spot in it, and me and 

 Sal Sleeps on it. And thai tliartno is i lie ole woman's persimmon ; 

 yon can't tie to it, 'caze she don't want 'em shukoll. She 'lows to 



T— Why don't you llnlsh covering your houso und stop tho 

 leaks? o 



S— It's been raintn' nil day. 



J-.— Well, why don't you do it lu dry weather!? 



S.—ll don't leak then. 



T \- there seems to be nothing alive about your place but 

 children, how do you do here anyhow? 

 • S.— Putty well, 1 thank you. How do you do yourself? 



T— 1 mean what do you do for a living here? 



S" -Keep tav-rii and -ell whiskev. 



T— Well. 1 told v.ii 1 wanted some whiskey. 



{j it ranger. 1 bought a h.ir'l nior'u a week ago. Vou see, me and 



Sal wont shars. Alter we got it here, we only had a bit betweenst 

 us. and Sal she didn't want to list: hern fust, nor me mine. You 

 see I had a spiggiu in one eend, and she in tothor. rto she takes a 

 drink out'n my eend. and pavs me the bit for it; then I'd take un 

 otit'n hern, and give her the bit. Well, «"■'« ."HinTiAno.fiiot.rain. 



till Dick, dinned skulking skunk. lie b 



iuek at, and the next time I went to buy a drink, they wont none 



2'— I'm sorry your whiskey's all gone; but, my friend, why 

 don't vou play'thc balance of that tune? 

 S.— ll'sffot no balance lo it. 

 T— I mean vou don't play the whole of it. 

 S.— Stranger, can you play i he liddvl} 

 T.-Yes, a little, sometimes. 

 S— You don't look l.kea liodlur. but ef you think you can play 



any i 



tray, the 

 tied in i 

 ahead, give bin 





f It.) 



irsandaot down. Bal.ati 



•ail, give 

 hi. tta.l. 



T.-Yes, sir. 



S.-I'll in- hanged if \ 

 way here, but Grub Hy.- 

 sweet: -'-' 



i I'u 





night, 



2',-(Aftei 

 me about i 



S.-U'o-mc 

 six weeks; outw 

 over thar? Well, 

 theroaduptlie b 

 acre-and-a-half Ci 

 you nee.ln'i mind that; j 

 two mile.- 1.. .ii. thar. y, u 



o, tho', we don't have nothin' that 

 ml l reckon it's mighty good Willi 

 jr, J'ou kin sleep on the dry spot to- 



tlddllng.) My friend, can't you tell 



a truck 



Thar's b 



T— Ho- 



S. -Vol 



,u won't git. out'n these digging f 

 von kin start, vou ace that big si 

 .i to git crost "that ; then you tal 

 about a milt: you'll conic to a two- 

 ... The corn's inilyly In the weeds, but 

 d that; ilst vide on. About a mile and a half 



urn to the daintiest, swamp you e* __ 

 iggv enoiill to mire a saddle- b I J 

 six I'ecl under Ihar. 



t at i: 



foil 

 toe 



tha;. y 



time, till the weather stiffens don 

 ■ant. you come to a place whar thai 

 ■ right hand ef you want to ; you' 

 'II find it runs out : you'll then iuii 



ua> knew v..ii re wrong, for they ain't any road thai-. 

 You'll then think you're mity lucky ef you kin find the way back 

 to my house, whar you kin cum and play on that ar tune as long 

 as you please. 



Alas, times change and men change with them. The 

 Arkansas of to-day would scarcely he. recognized by 

 those worthy old campaigners. Yell. 



A DAY IN THE WOODS. 



FIKST PAPER. 



tt was late in mild October, and the long autumnal rain 



Had ici't tH" i "• " haryeal fields all green with grass again; 



The first sharp infer? had fallen, leaving all the woodlands gray 



With the hues of summer's rainbow or the meadow flowers of 



May. 



Through a thin dry mist, that morning, the sun rose broad and 



At first a l-avloss disk of Are, he brightened as he sped; 



'", -V , tan lanri.-a.i-dued. 



(in the eornuoltts and orchards and softly pictured wood. 



" And f. 





e night-, 



Tie ','.- !,'•",', v'-'i'fh '-nlil. -a shiiiue the haze with yellow light; 

 Hiantin- throio'h I lie [minted beeches. In- ^ ion lied the hill; 

 ■ 1 1, it. bond and orchard lay, brighter, greener still. 

 „ « * * # * * * 



The summer grains were, harvested ; the stubble Balds lay dry, 

 Where .Tune winds rolled, in light and shade, the pale green 



Tint itllU i-i genu.' hill slopes, in valleys fringed with wood; 

 irngutiiered, bleaching in the sun, the heavy corn crop stood. 



IT was a few days later than America's poet has de- 

 scribed, for (be 'dim. smoky twilight of the last Octo- 

 ber evening was gradually settling down over hill and 

 meadow; leaving but a thin shred of crimson visible 

 above the borizon, as We drew up in trout dl Bill bimp- 

 i.uated upon rain of tho prettiest knolls 

 and most picturesque pieces of rural scenery in Suffolk 



Never sballl forget tbe first day my old friend Thorpe 

 ■drove me from tbe railway station up bill and down dale. 

 through cedar groves, and by the oouraes of purling 



streams, and when, completely overflowing with senti- 

 ment. J could no longer suppress my thoughts of ad- 

 miration, as the wagon swung suddenly around a wind 



the road, and the little embowered cottage met my 

 eye, I faltered, for little indeed was my expectation, at 

 the pace at which we were rattling along, of halting 80 

 abruptly, when, whore should he (to fully express the 

 idea), where should be "dump" me, but right down in 

 front of this same little gate. It swings yet upon its 

 rusty hinges at tbe same entrance which lias so often wel- 

 comed us, and as often furnished us a means of exit en 

 route for Pine Neck, or the " Point." 



The byre, barns, corn-crib and out-bouses, are overrun 

 a little more with lichens : the same lusty oaks nod 

 dreamingly to the listless winds : the pond is just as full, 

 and Tom's mill gigs away far into the night the same as 

 upon the evening of my "first visit. Though some years 

 ago, it seems but yesternight that we sat around the 

 hearth in that ancient kitchen, revellingin great expecta- 

 tions, some of which were never realized. 



Faithfully, indeed, do I remember that cool October 

 evening. There were four of us ; and we had come one 

 hundred miles to shoot quail among the buckwheat heaps 

 and corn shocks. Our host was awaiting our arrival, 

 and after making the usual courtesies, grasping him by 

 the hand, I know not how many times over, removing 

 the baggage from the wagon and putting up the horses, 

 we. stalked in Indian. file into the snug little dining-room 

 to honor a repast, tight and savory whiffs of which would 

 hare tickled the cockles of the heart of an alderman. 

 And honor it we did, for we had not supped for five long 

 hours, and the drive (after leaving a miserable, creeping 

 train) up through tbe beautiful country had sharpened 

 our appetites amazingly, 



As I recall that romantic event I sometimes think we 

 did behave indecently, but then it was there to be eaten, 

 and that's all there was to it, and we've done the same 

 thing repeatedly since. But, adjourning from the re- 

 maining fragments of what once bore the appellation of 

 sheldrakes, a hunt was instituted for the pipes. And after 

 that, again we repaired into the sitting-room before a 

 tromendous mass of crackling logs, which filled a fire- 

 place eight feet long, from whence issued a bright but 

 quivering glow upon tbe objects in the room, not forget- 

 ting lour well-filled, contented sportsmen. 



"The Wilson boys are coming up to-night and Oscar 

 will be over directly. I told them you were co m i n g 

 down. But George Wilson has lost* Major. He was 

 shooting at some coots off shore from the bank— the day 

 sterday, I think it was — and Maje jumped over 

 his heail just iu time to meet the load out of the gun"— 

 interrupted our host, in a low tone, as be came into the 

 little room. This singular coincidence was the subject 

 of various remarks, both humorous and sympathetic, for 

 Major was a good dog, and his singular death was re- 

 ceived, I am sure, with a feeling of regret. 



"Bob" sang "Mav the Pipes and the Bowls never 

 leave its," at tiie conclusion of which the door flew open 

 its full swing, and in walked the trio who had been listen- 

 ing outside. Then there was a greeting, 



"Spread out, boys ! and let these fellow sit down, they 

 look chilled. Are there many quail, Oscar?" 



"Tbere're more than this crowd could shoot in six 

 months. I was almost tempted to try my hand to-day, 

 but I don't know, somehow I did'nt," 



"That's good. I'm glad you did not. It would not 

 pay any man, in my estimation, to break tho law, even 

 for the sake of one day, and then you might be caught, 

 and then what?" 



" Be hauled up before Bisgood to pay for the privilege. 

 Saucy penny now that is, I reckon," said Will Wilson, as 

 be drew further from the blazing fire. 



" What's the penalty for shooting a dog?" chimed in 

 Henry, derisively, over which there was a tremendous 

 laugh at the expense of poor George, who laughed louder 

 and longer than the rest, I do not really believe I ever 

 met him but that he was laughing ; and to be sure he re- 

 lated the story in such an honest way, though laughing 

 all the while, that every one of us concluded that it was 

 a sheer accident. 



•■I thought it was a ghost at first, when I saw the 

 white thing fly over my bead, but then I don't very often 

 get scared at them." 



" No, George, do not allow such tilings to make a false 

 impression on your mind. There's no such thing as 

 ghosts, although my hair would stand at the recital of 

 some stories my father would tell to me when I was a 

 mere boy, and many a night have I gone trembling with 

 fear Co tied while he would laugh at the ignorance of 

 believing in such absurdities. 



"There is one story in particular which would always 

 strike terror into me. 'Twas about an old man named 

 Nevill, whom, after his demise, would be seen walking 

 around his domain, grim, gaunt and lean." 



"Let's have it," was the unanimous request, 



"Well, if 1 can tell it straight, though I cannot attempt 

 to spin it as the old man can. 



" Bob, give me some of that tobacco, and then I'll go 

 on, and after that every mother's son to bed, if we mean 

 quail in the morning. 



"Well, to begin with, my father was born in a country 

 famous for its poets, orators, statesmen, military heroes, 

 and a race of men whose wit has pleased nearly every 

 nation on the globe — Ireland, (Applause.) My grand- 

 father had but the two sons, i, e., Johnny and Willie. 

 I'm named after the latter. He was a gardener and bad 

 all the gentlemen's gardens to keep in Dublin and adja- 

 cent towns. The dame died when the boys were quite 

 young, and be having so much flora and horticulture 

 to attend to. and desirous of giving tbe lads a good edu- 

 cation as well as keeping them under the eyes of a whole- 

 some protector, was obliged to send them from home, 

 As I said, their mother was dead, and to effect the scheme 

 the old man sent the boys off to a Mr, Cox, who kept a 

 grammar school in a place called Bansha, which was 

 about twenty-four miles from then- home, in TJrlingford. 

 They would come home about once a month. Sometimes 

 they'd walk, or if they met any one coming to town they 

 could easily get a ride for " two penoo-hapenny" (five 

 cents). But one summer evening they started for home, 

 four of them, The two brothers, a latl named Morrisy 

 and another named Larry. They walked along the beau- 

 ciful road, bedecked as it was with the cowslip and oxalis, 

 discussing a problem from Hawney's "Mensuration," 

 and never looked over nor nether until they got to the 

 turnpike which led to NeviU's, though «.t that time they 



knew very little of the place or the ghastly legends at- 

 tached to it. 



"In due time they came to the castle, with its unglazecl, 

 long, narrow windows and walls overrun with ivy ; 

 some of the turrets knocked off, and long crevices be- 

 tween the stones ; together with the pond with it; ■ ■ i • 

 tangled, dappling bower that had grown and interwoven 

 for years and given to the place a weird and lonesome 

 appearance. 



"Across the pond was the old fellow's mill, which, 

 though the water was still running, had not given a grind 

 for many a day. Around the whole was a high, crumb- 

 ing wall over which in many places the ivy grew or 

 straggled through a crevice ; and around outside the wall 

 were beautiful tall trees which over-arched the long 

 avenue that environed the grounds, 



' -Jack Larry used to tell how he went to Nevill's one 

 night to steal wood. And how he succeeded in getting 

 the stick of timber neariyali the way over, and then won- 

 dering why it wouldn't slide over the wall, looked up and 

 saw old Nevill disputing tbe theft at the other end— the 

 brazen liar." "And was Nevill dead ?" asked George Wil- 

 son. "Dead! Why man, he was dead forty years. But 

 long after his death he used to be seen walking in his 

 grounds or riding on his old gray horse inspecting the fox 

 covert, the deer park, etc. — but, the boys. 



"People often pay dear to gratify their curiosity. Noth- 

 ing should do but they must go into the old stone mill. 

 Ned Flynn said he wouldn't go into that mill for a trans- 

 port — to heaven. There it was, weird and vacant-look- 

 ing, with all the indelible wear of time, The great stones 

 for grinding ; the hopper and all the equipments ; the 

 long, steep, winding stairs, and in one corner lay a great 

 heap of old sacks which, no doubt, bountiful care bad 

 once lavishly filled, but which now the hoys swore were 

 filled with ghosts ; and in short everything was there just 

 as Garrett Nevill left them, for he worked the mill after 

 his brother Robert's death. 



"The moon began to rise, and the long, silvery shadows 

 crept in through the tenantless lancet windows, casting 

 here and there a fleck of discernment upon a dusty ob- 

 ject. Drowsiness came over them, and they dropped oil 

 one after another into' the — I was going to say into 

 the dreaming arms of Morpheus, but into no such beati- 

 tude did they settle, not even into soothing oblivion. 



"How long they had been asleep I never could find out, 

 but Larry was the first one to wake, then Johnny. But 

 they could not move band nor Coot, scarcely breathe, and 

 to their terror everything was dark as a dungeon. Tho 

 moon, whose fleck had thrown a bttle romance ■' 

 the place, was overcast. Quick, airy footsteps emanated 

 from the floor above. They beard strange noises, as if 

 the spirits were adjusting portions of the old machinery, 

 and sure enough they were. In a twinkle the mill began 

 to jig and hum at a most terrible gait. Then tho spirits 

 dashed down the perpendicular spiral stairway, making 

 hideous, neighing chuckles as if well-pleased at then- 

 success in starting things up. The mill went on gaining 

 in rapidity, and the spirits threw in everything thfty 

 could find to be ground up into meal. Larry often would 

 say : "It went like lightning, and everything tho sylphs 

 threw in gave but one crash and that was the last of it, 

 the revolution was so fast. Then the spirits can.e fur the 

 sacks — " 



"Wait a minute," said George Wilson, "(ill T get 

 some more wood for the fire," but, on being informed 

 that the wood was down in the hollow behind the cow- 

 house, George " guessed " the fire would last to the end 

 of the story, and that's what I thought, as the story is 

 not very long. 



"I wonder if such a thing could be true?" inquired 

 Boh. 



"Well, sir ; you dare not ask Jack Larry that question 

 If you did, he'd either knock you down, or cross his fore- 

 head for you for a month. 



"The spirits came for the sacks (and by this time both 

 the lads were awake), and when the spirits sai " 

 everything stopped as quick as a. flash of light 

 great sacks were caught by the millers and I 

 the room helter-skelter, and the boys were seiz 

 power and hurled out into the grounds, and M 

 flung into the pond, and tha 

 ight, The mensuration be ' 



tbe 



b. r\ s. 

 ig, The 

 ig about 

 by some 

 rissy got 

 the middle of the 

 .d they man- 

 aged to get over the wall (because they dare not go out 

 by the mill-road), and whom should they stumble upon 

 but Ned Caloy going to Dublin with a load of turf. They 

 told Ned all about the thing, and he made Neddy — that's 

 the ass — ' ho,' and he stood stricken with awe at tbe 

 foolishness of the lads for going near the place at all. He 

 swore a big Irish oath and said he'd tell Murray Fitz- 

 patrick, the priest, and then, as a warning to the buys, 

 he told them how that himself and Neddy got left when 

 the caravan started out with turf one night, and that be 

 had to come by Nevill's wall alone; and how old Nevill 

 jumped over the wall and whipped the linen-pin of the 

 cart and stole the wheel and threw it over the wall ; and 

 then 1he other wheel in like manner ; and after that, laid 

 hold on the kish of turf and flung it about the road ; club- 

 bed the ass and then gave me, said he, 'ashelpin jowl, an 

 begorrah I laved the ass there, an I run from this to Dub- 

 lin, sixty miles, widout a flinch, an overtook the mail- 

 coach."" 



" Come, come," said Henry. 



" Well they went to Dublin with Caley. and b 

 them home the second day, and they drew all the lads 

 from the village about them and told the story just as I 

 have told it." 



"That's a good story," said Sharpe ; "but I can't hardly 

 take it in." 



"Nor I either," said Bob; "but there's some peopla 

 who would." 



Oscar said : " Surely that came from Ireland." 



"Yes, that's where it came from ; but it's a beautiful 

 country — mirrored all over with beautiful lakes and 

 streams, abounding with the finest trout, and the people 

 are as kind-hearted as can be fotmd ; and if you were to 

 take them out and place another race there, then it 

 wouldn't be Ireland. In tbe contest for fame what nation 

 on the earth can boast of a greater victory? But that s 

 not the story I wanted to tell. Now, come to think, Til 

 tell that to-morrow night. Lot's turn in. The fire'a 

 out." 



We all said good night. Oscar's house was to be the 

 meet, and the Wilson's had to go up through tin* woods, 

 and said they'd be down if they slept well. 



HarstFbkwoud, 



