Feb. 17, 1887.] 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



6a 



accompanied by my friend Mud, as I had hoped, he would 

 have contributed largely to our joys, and added much to 

 the enjoyment of those whom I visited. They had heard 

 of Mud, for I had immortalized him through the columns 

 of the Forest and Stream. He deserved it all. 



We have had bad weather in North Carolina. Just as 

 I was fully ready to try the birds, down came the snow 

 and ended all my joybus anticipations. At this season 

 they fly fast, and the sportsman has no time to count ten 

 after they spring up from their cover and seek another. 

 He must be "quick on trigger" or they get beyond range. 



I see that you have another "Wells." Which of U£ has 

 the prior right ? If he, then I will take another name. 

 Otherwise, "will he? But for the present I will subscribe 

 myself Wells. 



Rockingham, N. C, Jan. 13. 



SAM LOVEL'S THANKSGIVING.— II. 



AS hunting was dearer to Sam Lovel than feasting, it 

 very naturally happened that on a certa in Thanks- 

 giving Day morning he was out on the hills with Drive 

 rather than at home enduring the fuss and bustle of the 

 "women folkses' " preparation of the great dinner. Such 

 endurance he thought would be poorly paid for by all 

 the good things that the feast would furnish forth, to be 

 gorged at noon in a silent and business-like manner, as if 

 to eat a little more than one's comfortable fill was the 

 best, if not the only observance of the time-honored holi- 

 day that was required. 



Sam was out betimes. As he took his Avay across the 

 narrow fields to the woods, the dun grass land, the black 

 squares and oblongs of fall plowing, the gray of the de- 

 ciduous trees and the "black growth" of the woodlands 

 were blurred together in the first light of the early morn- 

 ing, notlung distinct but hues and patches of the first 

 snow, left by the ensuing warm days, and the serrated 

 crest of the mountain now sharply cut against the eastern 

 sky. The hound, quartering the way toward simrise, 

 came into sight and vanished, now to the right, now to 

 the left, first white spots and then a dimly defined dog, 

 then white spots and no dog, nor any indication of his 

 nearness but his loud snuffing and crisp crush of the frosty 

 herbage under his feet. Presently he gave tongue on a 

 cold scent, and puzzling out with his miraculous gift of 

 smell the devious course of the fox over knolls and through 

 swales of matted mouse-haunted wild grass, and by and 

 by, when daylight had set well-defined bounds to' field 

 and forest, led his slowly-following master to the ridge 

 of the first hill. Then the sun began to burn its way up 

 the sky with so intense a flame that it seemed to be con- 

 suming the stubby trunks and low-spread branches of 

 the stunted evergreens bristling in blurred silhouette on 

 the mountain crest. Sam followed the trend of the long- 

 ledge that formed the top of the hill, a sheer steep 

 abutting toward the west, a long rough slope 

 slanting to a dark gorge on the east. Out of this 

 came from time to time the tuneful baying of 

 the hound as he worked southward on the scent," so cold 

 that only in those places that held it best it greeted his 

 nostrils with an aroma strong enough to bring forth his 

 bugle-like challenge. The intervals of silence became 

 longer between the bugle notes, sounding now fainter 

 and further away, till at last unheard at all, though the 

 murmur of a mountain brook changing with wafts of the 

 light breeze, the monotonous song of the evergreens 

 swelling and falling with its varying touch, and a hun- 

 dred nameless mysterious voices of the woods fooled the 

 hunter's ear now" and then. But he had an abiding faith 

 that at last Drive would get up the fox and bring him 

 back along this ridge, and so he listened and waited, sit- 

 ting on a moss-cushioned log while all the chickadees of 

 the neighborhood came and visited liirn with inquisitive 

 friendliness, and the jays, at more respectful distance, 

 squalled a protest against his intrusion on then- haunts. 

 A solitary crow, belated in his migration, discovered the 

 silent and motionless figure and made as much pother as 

 if it had been a f eatherless owl or a furless fox, but when 

 his clamor failed to bring any response from the brethren 

 now far beyond the sound of his voice, he flapped away 

 in silent disgust. A red squirrel scampering over the 

 matted leaves in quest of buried treasure, sat up at the 

 toe of Sam's boot, and after a short inspection of this 

 queer black stump, ventured on to it, and then as far as 

 Sam's knee, whence a wink of the hunter's gray eye 

 frightened him in a sudden panic, from which he recov- 

 ered sufficiently when he had gained the vantage of a 

 tree trunk to rattle out a volley of abuse. When these 

 visitors had all departed and Sam had listened long in 

 vain, he moved on to a bald peak of the hill from which 

 a portion of the valley could be seen, with its cleared 

 fields and wooded cobbles, and farm houses and out- 

 buildings Strung along the frozen black road like nests on 

 a slender leafless branch. Some were as deserted to-day 

 as the vireo's nest that hung in a fork of the witch hazel 

 beside him, the inmates away for one day's thanksgiving 

 as the birds were for months of it. But from the chim- 

 ney of one red-painted homestead, which Sam's wander- 

 ing glances always came back to, a banner of smoke 

 flaunted, denoting occupancy. 



"Someb'dy stayin' to hum t' Pur'n't'ns," he soliloquized. 

 "Guess most on 'em 's gone some'eres tu Thanksgivin', f 

 the' haint nob'dy stirrM' 'round aou'door. Guess they 

 haint keepin' on 't there, for 'f they was ol' Gran'ther 

 Pur'n't'ns shay 'ould be a loomin' up 'long side o' the barn 

 bike a tew storey haouse afire. Wonder -f the' haint 

 nob'dy t' hum, 'n' the dum'd haouse is afire" — as the 

 chimney belched forth a greater volume of smoke. "Do' 

 kmow but what I'd better go an' see. That 'ere fox is an 

 ol' N' Hampsh'r traveller, an' he'll tow Diive clean t' the 

 C'net'eut River 'fore he gives it up an' comes back, an' 

 I'll be dum'd 'f I'm a goin' to set 'raound here a waitin' f or 

 him 'till t'morrer night. I b'lieve that dum'd ol' haouse 

 is afire!" And listening one moment more for the voice of 

 the hound, almost afraid that he might hear it, he star-ted 

 down the sheer hillside, checking now and then his head- 

 long course with clutches on bushes, saplings and tree- 

 trunks, till he reached the level of the alder-bordered 

 brook that wound along the base of the hill. The red 

 winter berries glowed there in vain to catch his eye, and 

 he crushed unseen beneath his feet the scarlet cones of 

 the white turnip drooping on their withered stalks as .he 

 breasted the tangled sprawl of the alders. When beyond 

 them he came in sight of the house again, he caught a 

 glimpse of a trim figure as the kitchen door opened for 

 an instant, the flash of a dishpan and the glitter of its 

 discharged contents, and a few notes of a clear voice 



singing, "The Girl I Left Behind Me." The figure and 

 the voice made his heart beat quicker, but he slackened 

 his pace as he taxed his wits for an excuse for his call. 

 When he crossed the chips in front of the woodshed, he 

 had decided that his first idea was the best to act upon, 

 and that if he did not quite believe it now, he really had 

 believed that the house was on fire. He knocked at the 

 kitchen door and waited long enough for flames to have 

 made great headway, while he listened to the clear voice 

 singing with all the freedom from embarrassment of one 

 who sings without a listener, and for the singer's sole 

 pleasure — 



"If ever I chance to go that way, 



And she has not resigned me, 

 I'll reconcile my mind and stay 



With the girl I left hehind me." 



He did not knock again till the words ended, and the 

 singer began to hum the tunc in a lower voice. Then 

 the singing and the accompanying clatter of dishes and 

 swash of "wrench water' suddenly stopped, and Sam 

 knew that in the ensuing hush Huldah was wiping her 

 hands on the towel behind the battery door, that the few 

 quick footsteps took her to the looking glass in the door 

 of the clock, whose ticking he could now hear, and now 

 she was coming. When she opened the door such a 

 bright pleased surprise shone on her pretty face that he 

 could compare it to nothing but the brightness of that 

 morning's sunrise. 



"Wiry, good land sakes alive! Samwell Lovel, where 

 on airth did you come from ?" 



"Wal," said Sam, his cheeks as red as hers, "1 was a 

 huntin' up on Pig's Back, an' I seen the smoke a tumblin' 

 aouten your chimbly at sech a rate 't I was afeared the 

 haouse was afire. I thought most likely 'at you'd all 

 gone off t' Thanksgivin', an suthin' nuther bed ketched, 

 an' so I come ri' daown. I'm sorry t' I troubled ye, but 

 I'm dreffie glad 't the' haint nothin' afire. Guess I'll be a 

 goin' naow." 



"Why, what's yer hurry, Mr. Lovel? Come in an' 

 sedd ao wn an' rest ye a spell. Aour folks is all gone, 

 father 'n' mother 'n' Sis, up to Gran'ther's, an' lef nob'dy 

 t' hum but me 'n' the cat. I didn't keer no gret 'baout 

 goin' an' so I staid t' hum to keep haouse. Come in an* 

 seddaown a minute, won't ye? whilst I gwup stairs an' 

 look o' that sto'pipe — it lies ben kinder aouter kilter. 

 Come in an' take a cheer. The kitchin looks like all git 

 aOut [it was as neat as a new band-box], but I wa'n't 

 'spectm' nob'dy, an' the haint no fire in the square room. 

 I'd take yer gun but I dassent — set it in the corner, er 

 he?ig it up on the hooks over the mantel-tree there. 

 Father's gun's gone t' V'gennes a bein' altered over tu a — 

 a cap-lock, is 't you call 'em? He thinks they're better 

 'n flint-locks. Du you think they be, Sa — Mr. Lovel, I 

 mean?" 



"Wal, they be handier an' sartiner to go off, but I do' 

 know but what a flint-lock gun is "baout as good— to heng 

 up, as yer father's does mostly," Sam answered, looking 

 up contemplatively at the hooks where his own gun now 

 hung. 



"Make yerself f hum, Samwell — why. haow I du keep 

 a callin' on ye by yer fust name! excuse me, Mr. Lovel— 

 whilst I gwup an' see 'baout that 'ere sto'pipe" 



The stovepipe must have been found in satisfactory con- 

 dition, for Huldah presently reappeared in a smart new 

 calico gown, and with her hair neatly brushed and fast- 

 ened with a, high tortoise shell comb. 



"Is it usuil, Mr. Lovel," she asked, after she had set 

 away her dishes, and drawing a chair to the stove, sat 

 down and folded her hands in seemly fashion over her 

 check apron, "for folks to knock at the door when they 

 think a haouse is afire?" 



I wa'n't a knockin'!*' Sam said, dropping his abashed 

 eyes from her roguish glance, "I was a begihnin'— kinder 

 mawdret, ye know, to bust open the door. I didn't wanter 

 skeer nob'dy, s'posin' the' was anyb'dy t'hum, which I 

 hedn't no idee the' was." 



Huldah could not help laughing at this absurd explana- 

 tion, nor could Sam help joining her, and when they had 

 had their laugh out they found themselves much more at 

 ease and became very sociable. When Huldah again 

 corrected herself for addressing him by his first name, he 

 reminded her of their old school days when she had never 

 thought of calling him anything but Sam. "We wus 

 putty good frien's them times, Huldy, but I'm afeard you 

 haint a feelin' so frien'ly tow-wards me naow, a-Misterin' 

 on me so. I do' know who folks is a talkin' tu when they 

 says Mister Lovel; seem's 's 'ough they was mistakin' on 

 me for father or gran'ther." 



"Wal then, Sam! 'f 't suits ye any better," cried Hul- 

 dah, and he declared that it did suit him better, "a dum'd 

 sight." 



' 'I hedn't made no cal'lations on gittiii' a reg'lar dinner 

 tu-day, bein' 'at the' wa'n't nob'dy here but me," Huldah 

 apologized, looking tup at the clock as it Warned for 

 eleven. "I'm dreffie sorry 't I didn't naow, but I'm a 

 goin' t' git ye some nutcakes an' pie an' cheese, an' you'll 

 hafter stay yer stonier k wf them. You mus' be hungrier 

 'n a bear, eatin' of your breakfas' 'fore daylight I s'pose, 

 an' a traipsin' raound in the woods all the fo'noon," and 

 she bustled away to prepare the lunch in spite of Sam's 

 protesting that he "wa'n't the least mite hungry, an' 'ould 

 druther set an' talk 'n t' eat." 



"It does beat all nafrur'," she said with an emphatic and 

 rather petulant toss of her head, as she returned from the 

 pantry with a pie and a plate of doughnuts, " 'at anybody 

 can enj'y traipsin' raound, up hill an' daown, all day 

 long, arter a leetle insi'nificant fox! An shoolhr an' 

 stumbliiv raound the lots all night arter coons! Ketch 

 me, 'f I was a man. But you men folks du beat all 

 creation!" 



"Shouldn't wonder 'f we did, putty nigh, 'xceptin' the 

 womern part on't. That beats us. all holler. But I'd a 

 good deal druther ketch ye jest as ye be. I haint hed a 

 chance tu speak tu ye 'lone Tore in a dawg's age!" 



"I do' know 'f nothin' 'at the' 's ben t' hender, 'f ye 

 wanted tu," Huldah said, pouting her red hps, "erless 

 you'd forgot where we lived. You haint ben anigh f 'r I 

 d' know haow long, an' ye wouldn't t'day 'f you hedn't a 

 thought the haouse was afire 'n' nob'dy t' hum," and the 

 pout changed to a smile. 



"If I c'ld raly b'lieve at the time seemed long sen' I'd 

 ben here t' anyb'dy but me, I sh'ld be turrible glad on 't, 

 an' the' wouldn't be no need o' settin' the haouse afire t' 

 fetch me. But ye see, Huldy, yer father he don't set no 

 gret by folks 'at goes a huntin', no more 'n his darter does, 

 ti' so I haint felt ezackly free 'baout comin'." 



"Why Samwill! I wa'n't sayin' 'at I hed anything agin. 



folkses huntin'; I was on'y wonderin' what makes 'em 

 lufter." 



"Wal, it's kinder natur' I s'pose, borned inter some on 

 us same's 't is inter haoun' dawgs, an" we can't help a run- 

 nin' off int' the woods. Suthin' takes us. An' when 't 

 'aint none tew pleasant for a feller t' hum, like 'nough he 

 goes off a huntin' er a fishin' oftener' 'n he would 'f t'was 

 pleasant. Naow, 'f I hed a haouse o' my own an' some- 

 b'dy t' keep it— wal, say as this is kep'," looking around 

 the neat kitchen with a look of admiration that grew as it 

 returned and lingered on the bright face of the young- 

 housekeeper, "an' wa'n't alius a scoldin' an' findin' fault, 

 I p'sume to say I woiddn't go a huntin' more'n onct a 

 week in the season on't, 'thaout 't was when onconimon 

 good days come oncommon often." 



' 'The' haint no daoubt," Huldah said , rising in some con- 

 fusion, and, taking the tea kettle from the back of the 

 stove, going out to fill it, talking back through the open 

 door as she went to the pirmp, "but what you c'ld hire 

 someb'dy nuther to keep haouse for ye" — then the squeak- 

 ing and gurgling crescendo of the pump's voice drowned 

 hers. "I'm a goiu' t' make ye a, cup o' tea," returning with 

 the kettle and setting it on the stove, and giving the fire 

 an enlivening punch. 



"I wa'n't a nieanin' no hired help," Sam said — " no, 

 don't make me no tea — I'd druther you wouldn't take no 

 sech trouble— no, not no hired help, but someb'dy at 'ould 

 —'at thought they could stan it to — to go snucks along 

 wi' me a ownin' of a haouse, an' kecpin' on it for me an' 

 her," 



"Why, Saurwell Lovel! Haow youdu go on! Did any- 

 body ever!" cried Huldah, glowing with blushes. Then 

 she held her breath to hear what, she was sure, her lover 

 now must ask. But Sam was frightened into dumbness 

 by his own unwonted boldness: "and at last when the 

 silence was becoming painfully awkward, she not know- 

 ing what else to say, broke it with the unfortunate re- 

 mark that "The' was some other nat'ral borned hunter 

 up on the hill, she guessed, for she hearn a haoun' dawg 

 a yollupin' up there." Sam hurried out to listen, and 

 she followed him. 



"Wal, by the gret horn spoon!" he exclaimed, as the 

 familiar long-drawn notes of his own hound struck his 

 ear, "I'll be dum'd if that haint Drive, as sure asshootin'! 

 He's brung that 'ere fox back f'm the Lord knows where! 

 Yes, sir," as the musical cry swelled louder from the 

 nearest ridge, "he's jest a shoviir on Mm, 'n' he's a goin' 

 t' cross by the Butt'nuts, 'n' I b'lieve I c'n head liim!" 



Sam was in the kitchen and out again with his gun, in 

 an instant, and speeding across the fields toward the 

 well-known runway where three great butternut trees 

 crowned a knoll with a wide spread of thick, ungraceful 

 ramage. Sweetheart and doughnuts were forsaken, love 

 almost forgotten and hunger quite, in the ardor of the 

 chase, though it must be said in palliation of Sam's abrupt 

 departure that he longed to give Huldah an exhibition of 

 his skill as a hunter, to shoot the fox before her eyes and 

 presently bring her the furry trophy of his prowess. But, 

 alas, for his hopes! Before he was within the longest 

 possible gunshot of the knoll he saw the fox crossing it, 

 halting for a moment to look after the bellowing hound, 

 and then disappearing with undulating lopes on'his way 

 to the western range. He would probably play when he 

 reached those lines of ledges, Sam thought, and after a 

 little hesitation and more than one wistful glance back to 

 the red house, he went forward. He was ashamed to re- 

 turn now, so unsuccessful. 



"My!" Huldah said to herself, as with her plump hand 

 shading her eyes, she watched the receding form of her 

 lover, "I hope to goodness he'll git him!" Then when 

 the fox appeared and disappeared far out of Sam's reach, 

 she exhaled her 'long-held breath in a great sigh, not 

 wholly of disappointment. "Wal, I don't care, he'll come 

 back naow." But Avhenhe went on with a swinging stride 

 that speedily took him out of her sight, her eyes filled 

 with tears of vexation. "The 'tar nal great fool! I hope 

 "t he won't never come anigh me agin 's long 's I live an' 

 breathe, an' I hope 't that won't be long — I do! What a 

 plegged.fool I was t' up an' tell o' hearin' a haoun"! I 

 wish 't the' wa'n't a haoun' dawg ner a fox in this wide- 

 livin' world for men t' go shooiin' an' rivnnin' an' train- 

 sin' arter when they might be a duin' suthin' wuth while. 

 He caies more for a mis'able sneakin' fox 'an he does for 

 me, or anything on airth, to run off arter one an' leave 

 me jest when — I wish 't J was a fox, an' then niebby— 

 Oh! wouldn't I keep him a moggin' a spell — I won't never 

 speak to Mm agin so long 's I live an' breathe! Let Mm 

 hev his ol' haoun' an' Ms foxes an' his hateful ol' gun an' 

 Ms everlastin' huntm' 'f he likes 'em better'n he does me. 

 I don't care, so there, naow!" But she was choking with 

 alternating tearful fits of sorrow and anger all the after- 

 noon, and when her father and mother and little sister 

 returned from the Thanksgiving at "gran'thers," they 

 wondered to find her so woe-begone. 



"I hedn't no idee," said her father to her mother after 

 furtively watching her as he sat warming his hands at 

 the stove, " 'at Huldy keered a row o' pins 'baout goin' t' 

 father's." 



When miles away on one of the furthest ridges of the 

 western hills, Sam at sundown shot his fox, and gave 

 the dying brute a spiteful if merciful finishing kick in 

 the head, he said, "Blast yer pictur', I wish 't you hed 

 ha' gone clean t' N' Hampsh'r 'n, I never 'd seen er heard 

 on ye, dum ye ! You've cost me more 'n any fox ever cost a 

 man afore sen the' was foxes an' men an' women folks in 

 this world!" He bore an aching heart for many a weary 

 day before he forgave himself or was forgiven by Huldah. 

 How her forgiveness came may be told some time. 



One day hi the winter Huldah came to Aunt Jerasha 

 on an errand. "I wanter borry your wool caards, Aunt 

 Jerushy, to caard some rolls for father some socks, 

 Aourn is lent, w T e do' know where." In the conversation 

 that accompanied the borrowing and lending of the cards, 

 Aunt Jerusha asked when Huldah had seen Samwill 

 Lovel, to which Huldah replied with a show of spiteful 3 

 ness that her wistful eyes belied, that she had not seen 

 him since about Thanksgiving Day, "an' didn't wanter, 

 as she knowed on!" Whereat Aunt J erusha was surprised 

 and grieved, for it was her cherished hope that these two. 

 her favorites among all the young folks of Danvis, would 

 some day make a match. After some coaxing Huldah 

 told her old friend her grievance, and so Uncle Lisha 

 came to know in part the story which we have told for 

 him, 



Rowland E, Robinson, 



