THE VOICE OF THE HILLS. 



sion to cut the big tree the next time the 

 coon took refuge in it. On other occasions 

 they had left him there and hunted a now 

 quarry. That night, however, they decided 

 that the tree must come down and the coon 

 be captured at all hazards. Thus it was 

 that at length the merry sound of the axe 

 broke the stillness of the night. 



The sound again put fever into the vejns 

 of my dog. I put a chain to his collar and 

 told him we would go. The gladness of 

 his soul, if dogs have souls, was expressed 

 in his eyes and accentuated by the wagging 

 of his tail. 



On arriving at the woods I saw by the 

 cutting which way the tree would fall, and 

 took a position where I would be safe from 

 falling limbs. 



We waited patiently enough until the 

 cracking of the tree as it started to fall set 

 the old dog wild. He had often heard that 

 sound, and knew it was the prelude to a 

 keen chase and perhaps a fierce fight. I 

 unsnapped the chain and held him by the 

 collar with one hand while I closed his 

 mouth with the other. The time had not 



come to make our presence known. The 

 swish and crash of limbs as the great elm 

 came roaring down through the other trees 

 was too much for the dog, and he set up a 

 lively light to get loose. When the tree 

 struck it shook the earth. I had to let the 

 dog go, even at the risk of his being struck 

 with pieces of limbs which continued to 

 fall. A coon is seldom hurt or killed by 

 a falling tree. That one was no exception 

 to the rule. Almost immediately he leaped 

 from the top and made off at marvelous 

 speed in the opposite direction from the 

 light and the other dogs. As he ran past 

 me I whistled for my dog, but he was al- 

 ready on the track and he caught the coon 

 in a few seconds. 



The other dogs were not yet through 

 the top, and were hunting for the track, 

 followed by the boys with the lantern. I 

 had the fight all to myself. Over and 

 under they rolled, each growling and fight- 

 ing in his own particular fashion. When 

 the other dogs arrived on the spot the fight 

 came to a sudden end, and a coon paid 

 with his life for the crime of living. 



THE VOICE OF THE HILLS, 



REV. R. S. STRINGFELLOW. 



I know r a place where mountain peaks 

 Look down into valleys deep ; 



A place where the clouds come down to 

 rest 

 And where the storm gods sleep. 



I have seen the spirit of storm come forth, 

 With his frown and his ghostly shroud, 



And revel awhile in the valleys below; 

 Then back to his home in the cloud. 



Back to the gulch's hollow throat, 

 And the cavern's yawning gap ; 



Far in his cloud pavilion 



He goes for his evening nap. 



I have seen him come from his chamber, 

 And, like an eagle in his flight, 



Cover the stars with shadowy wings, 

 Blacker than Egypt's night. 



Then have I seen the Morning rise, 

 With glittering lances of red, 



And send the retreating storm fiend 

 Back to his mountain bed. 



I know the winding valleys, 



All dark with hoary trees, 

 That cast their elf-like shadows, 



And quake with every breeze. 



Far from the noisy railroads, 

 That tell of the haunts of men, 



Back in the wooded gulches 



Where the panther makes his den. 



Back where the rivers start and flow, 

 Fresh from the everlasting snow ; 



Splashing the rocks with fleecy spray. 

 Leaping the boulders and cliffs in the 

 way, 

 Down to the hills below. 



Farewell to the dust and the crowded 



streets ! 

 Farewell to society's empty sw r eets ! 

 The mountains look down through the haze 



with a smile 

 And bid me come with my rifle a while. 



