222 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



[MAE0H117, 1894. 



De Music of de Houn's. 



I lib'en to de ribber 



As it hurries to de sea; 

 To de gentle breeze a-singm' 



In de or magnolia tree; 

 To de gurgle of de trout brook ' 



In de floods of airy spring; 

 An 1 de music of de hedges 



When de birds begin to sing. 

 But dey's a sweeter melody, 



Dat drowns all other soun's, 

 It's dat noisy, joyous chorus— 



De music of de houn's. 



Across de russet woodlands 



De mellow chorus swells, 

 An' fades away in distance, 



Like de soun' of chiming bells; 

 But it leaves de air a-tremblin', 



Like de music dat you bring 

 When you sot'ly strike de banjo 



Down on de little string. 

 You kin talk of singin 1 angels, 



Wid dey harps 'n' gol'en crowns, 

 But fo 1 me de sweetest music 



Is de music of de houn's. The General. 



DANV1S FOLKS.— XXV. 



Friends in Adversity. 



Sam wandered uneasily about in pursuit of work that 

 had no purpose but to keep him from thinking. At last 

 he shouldered the ox-yoke and started for the meadow. 

 As he passed the hog pen he fairly reseated the indiffer- 

 ence with which the hogs were taking on fat for another 

 man's benefit and begrudgingly threw them their accus- 

 tomed largess of nubbins, though they grunted lajzy re- 

 cognition of his accustomed footstep. It put him more 

 out of humor to see the contentment with which the 

 oxen and cows grazed, jowl-deep, in the aftermath, and 

 the sheep nibbled the pasture knolls, all indifferent to 

 impending change of ownership, though they had been 

 so long his daily companions. The old hound alone seemed 

 sympathetic, walking at heel, spiritless and dejected, 

 scarcely noticing the last night's fox trail that the reeking 

 herbage still exhaled, and meeting his occasional glances 

 with a wistful lace more troubled than his master's. 



The mood of nature was as little in accord with his. 

 The sun shone out of the soft sky with genial warmth on 

 woods and helds not yet quite stripped of painted leaves 

 and green grabs by the final desolating blasts of late 

 autumn. There was a full measure of hearty cheer in 

 the notes of migrant crows and other birds that delayed 

 departure or stayed to brave the stress of winter, only the 

 tri-syllabic plaint of the thistle bird, gleaning the ripe- 

 weed seeds, had a cadence of sadness and farewell. 



"It's all the same tu the airth an' the dumb critters who 

 goes or who comes! All but you, Drive," he said, as he 

 slipped the ox-bow on old Bright's burly neck and fast- 

 ened it in the yoke and called Broad to take his place. 

 "But I hope wuoever gits a holt o' you, ol' fellers, '11 be 

 good tu you an' the caows an' the ol' mare. I don't want 

 you 'bused, ner the farm nuther." 



He yoked the oxen to the cart and drove them out to 

 the field for the last shocks of unhusked corn. The plow 

 stood in an unfinished furrow among the stubble and 

 frost-blackened pumpkin vines. Sam drew it out and 

 heaved it upon the cart with spiteful energy. 



' 'By, the gret horn spoon, I won't plow another furrer 

 fer the Lord knows who," he soliloquized in a tone that 

 accorded with the action, and with a. long look as if bid- 

 ding the familiar field farewell he hauled home the last 

 load and turned the oxen loose. 



He watched them wander off in search of the choicest 

 feed and then set himself to husking, while his vagrant 

 thoughts wandered in futile quest of a way of escape 

 from the troubles which beset him. His eyes went over 

 and over the familiar interior. It was hard to realize 

 that the old barn was passing out of his ownership. Every 

 nook and corner of scaffold, bay and stable recalled some 

 incident of childish sport or freak of fancy, linked with 

 the labors and thoughts of youth and manhood so inti- 

 mately that their years seemed but as days, childhood 

 and yuuth but parts of dawning manhood The rudely 

 carved initials and figures were translated again in their 

 old oignificance, the scars, the knots, the contortions of 

 grain took on again the semblance of men, beasts and 

 birds, that had been realities to his childish imagina- 

 tion. All the familiar surroundings seemed too much a 

 part of himself to go out of his life while he yet lived. 



"Consarn it," he cried out impatiently, as he tossed 

 aside a bundle of stalks, "my idees runs wilder 'n a 

 haoun' pup on a back track and never gits nowheres. 

 I'll tell ye what, ol' dawg," addressing the hound curled 

 up in the comfortable warmth of the sunshine falling on 

 the barn floor, "we'll go off int' the woods a day, jest you 

 an' me, an' see ef we can't git 'em straightened aout." 



Drive's tail beat a rustling response on the cornstalks 

 and his sad brow was lifted in new corrugations of 

 inquiry. 



The shadow of a figure debased the gold of the floating 

 moats and crept along the floor till it fell upon the rust- 

 ling bundle on Sam's lap, and Pelatiah's lank figure 

 materialized behind it. Drive wagged r ecogni tion and Sam 

 turned a surprised face over his shoulder to welcome 

 their comrade. 



The simple geeetings, "Why Peltier," "Wal, Samwil," 

 expressed a deal of friendliness, but no more was said till 

 Pelatiah, after the custom of such visitors, seated himself, 

 draw a bundle of corn across his knee and began husking. 

 For a while, there was a continuous rustling of husks, 

 leaves and stalks, punctuated by the snapping off of ears 

 and their sharp click upon the growing pile, then as the 

 two huskers finished their bundles together, Pelatiah said, 

 after much embarrassed clearing of his throat: 



"£ s'pose it's true what I hearn abaout that aire Basconi 

 a-gittin' you intu sech a mess? " 



Sana nodded assent and Pelatiah continued, "I'm tur- 

 rible sorry, Samwil, an' I wish't I hed the means tu help 

 ye mor'n what I hev, but I hev got some, which I want 

 you tu take an' use it." 



He leaned far back, straightened his left leg, went 



down into the depths of his trousers pocket and brought 

 up therefrom a dilapidated wallet from which he took a 

 small roll of bank notes and carefully counted them upon 

 his knee with a frequently moistened forefinger. 



"I hed consid'able over forty dollars 'at I'd saved up 

 one way 'an 'nother," he said apologetically, as he com- 

 pleted the counting, "but the fun'al, an' the darkter's bill 

 an' Hamner's took above half on 't. But I want ye tu 

 take this an' not trouble tu pay it back ontil things eases 

 up on ye." 



He stretched it out toward Sam with an awkward, 

 bashful eagerness glowing in his honest face. 



"Oh, Peltier, I couldn't," Sam protested, his voice 

 choking and his eyes moistening, "I'm a thaousand times 

 obleeged tu ye, but I couldn't take it." 



"But I want ye tu, Samwil, 't aint much, I know, but 

 it'll help over the pitches some, mebby," Pelatiah urged. 



"I'm as 'bleeged tu ye as if 't was a thaousan' dollars, 

 but I couldn't take it. I do' know when I could pay 

 you an' I haint a thing tu s'cure ye, ev'rythin' 's 'taiched 

 up." 



"I don't care when you pay me, I want you tu take it 

 an' use it just as if 't was yourn. " Pelatiah thrust the 

 money further toward Sam's withdrawn hand. "I didn't 

 s'pose you'd spleen agin takin' a, leetle favor f 'm me, Sam- 

 wil, sen I've took so many fin you," said Pelatiah in a 

 grieved tone and still holding out the proffered loan. 



Sam looked steadily into the earnest, kindly blue eyes 

 and took hand and money in a warm, firm grasp. 



"Ef you're goin' tu feel that way 'baout it I shall hafter 

 take it, but I hedn't ortu." 



"You hedn't ortu, you got tu," said Pelatiah joyfully. 

 ' 'It 'ould burn my pocket tu kerry it, an' you a-needin' on 

 't, so there!" 



"Wal, ef you will hev it so, you will, but you got tu 

 take a note 't any rate. Come int' the haouse an' I'll write 

 one." 



Pelatiah protested, but Sam was inexorable, and after 

 counting out the loan carefully, pocketed it and led the 

 way to the house. 



■ 'Bad luck is good luck, when it shows a feller who his 

 frien's is," Sam said, laying a gentle hand on his young 

 comrade's shoulder as they entered the door. 



Long before the constable posted the notice of the sale 

 in Hamner's barroom and Clapham's store, the news of 

 Sam's disaster was spread through half the township. 



Mrs. Purington waddled across the fields to offer the 

 balm of condolence to the distressed family. The sound 

 of her labored breath and ponderous step on the threshold 

 as she assisted herself with a hand on her knee to sur- 

 mount it and enter the door, opened to the Indian 

 summer warmth, was the first announcement of her 

 visit. 



Faintly acknowledging the salutations of her daughter, 

 Aunt Jerusha, Uncle Lisha and Timothy, she slowly low- 

 ered herself into the first comfortable chair, accomplish- 

 ing the feat with a final bounce and exhaling a long sigh 

 as if she were a slowly collapsing bag of inflated india 

 rubber. Then she rummaged forth her handkerchief and 

 bottle of hartshorn salts and fixed a tearful gaze on the 

 little boy who sat among his abandoned playthings, star- 

 ing in bewilderment at his grandmother's rueful counte- 

 nance. 



"O, you poor innercent!" she wailed, in a shaking voice, 

 portentous of a lachrymal shower. "Little you know 

 what 's afore ye, a-sittin' there, playin' wi' your mother's 

 clo's pins, which I gin her four dozen when she went tu 

 haousekeepin' wi' your father, which I shouldn't think he 

 c'ld endure tu look at ye, ner her, a-thinkin' what he's 

 brung on ye. Play wi' 'em while ye can, an' it don't 

 make no dif'unce ef ye break 'em er lose 'em, fer 'taint 

 likely she '11 hev no use fer 'em, wi' nothin' tu heng aout, 

 on'y the clo's on yer backs, which she can't 'thout all 

 a-goin' tu bed. An' tu think 'at you was fetched through 

 the whoopin' cough an' the measles wi' Hive surrup an' 

 lobele an' pennyrile tea, tu come tu this, which I gathered 

 wi' my own han's, an' nanny-berries tu fetch 'em aout, 

 a-nu«sin' you an' comfortin' your mother, an' broke o' 

 my rest, which I will contihner tu, whilst I'm gi'n 

 stren'th." 



She put her handkerchief to her eyes and tucked the 

 smelling bottle inside it to her nose, making her snuffling 

 sobs do double duty, while the object of her pity lifted 

 up his voice and wept, whereunto Drive joined a sympa- 

 thetic howl. 



"Fer massy's sake, mother," cried Huldah, snatching 

 up the child and wiping his nubby nose with her apron 

 while she tried to comfort him, "what be you makin' 

 sech a fuss abaout? There, mother's man, he stop a min- 

 ute an hear Drive sing. Just see what a haowdalo you've 

 started. What's the use hevin' a fun'al afore anybody's 

 dead?" 



"It's allers the way," whined Mrs. Purington behind her 

 handkerchief; "jes' as soon as ye try tu comfort anybody 

 they git mad, stiddy o' bein' grateful one mossel tu folks 

 a-toilin' 'cross lots tu console em, an' a-clim bin' fences an' 

 a-sozzlin' through wet grass. I do' know why that rowen 

 haint cut, a ton tu the acre, an' the' heart a-bustin' wi' 

 sympathy, an' both feet a-soppin' wet, an' then hev it all 

 took so ongrateful. An' Lisher an' Jerushy," making a 

 blind gesture toward them with the smelling bottle, fru- 

 gally stopped with her forefinger; "the' haint nothin' fer 

 them, as 1 see, but tu be hove on t' the taown." 



"Good airth an' seas, Eunice Pur'nt'n! Ef I come tu 

 that 't aint no killin' disgrace. Poverty haint no crime, 

 an' I've allers paid my sheer o' the poor tax, an' ef it's my 

 lot tu hev some on 't used for me 1 shan't consider it no 

 disgrace. But the's lots o' days' works in me an' the ol' 

 woman yit, afore it comes tu that." 



"It does seem as if some folks hedn't no shame intu 

 'em," she said, mournfully; and Sam, entering just then, 

 drew upon himself the consolatory stream. 



"0, dear me, euzzy day!" she saia, regarding him sor- 

 rowfully and reproachfully as she slowly snuffed the 

 hartshorn. "I uu hope, Samwill Lovel, 'at you reurlize 

 naow what I allern said an' Huldy's father, what yer goo'- 

 fer-nothin' fruntin' 'ould come tu in the end. Huntin' an' 

 signin' goes han' in nan'. O, dear me, suz!" 



"Wal, neow," Sam said in a conciliatory tone, "I don't 

 ezacly see what my huntin' hed tu du wi' my signin' wi' 

 that skeezuks. He never went a-huntin' 'long wi' me. 

 Ef I was borned a tarnal fool, I do' know what the huntin', 

 'at come arter, hed tu du with 't. Huntin' sharpens a 

 feller's wits an' I'm most af eared I haint hunted half 

 enough." 



She groaned and went on; 



"Haow in the livin' worP anybody c'ld trust that sof- 



sopin' hippercrite of a Bascom 's more'n I c'n see intu. I 

 allers said f'm the fust 'at he was a scallywag, an' wa'n't 

 tu be trusted a inch. He went off a-owin' me myself tew 

 dollars — twenty dozen aigs the' was — an' forty cents, 

 'cause I couldn't think o' nothin' I wanted jes' then, never 

 mistrustin' nothin'." 



"You must ha' ben a-huntin' that day, mother," Sam 

 suggested. 



"Me a-huntin'?" she snorted indignantly, "nob'dy never 

 Come to no good a-shoolin' an' a-traipsin' raoun' a-huntin' 

 an' — " 



"'Taint no sech a thing, Eunice Bord'n." With the 

 hoarse whistling voice came the sound of a footfall and 

 the emphatic planting of a staff on the threshold, and 

 Gran'ther Hill stamped in, glaring savagely at Mrs. 

 Purington, who at once took refuge in her handkerchief 

 and fortified herself with repeated sniffs of the hartshorn. 



"It's good fer a man's body an' soul.tu go a-huntin' ef 

 he don't hunt like a cussed hawg, a-gawmin' daown 

 ev'ything he comes tu. A rest tu the body an' a divarsion 

 tu the min' fer sech as can enjy sensible divarsion, an' 

 haint got a appetite fer fun'als which I haint. Would n't 

 never go tu my own 'f I c'ld git red on't." 



The good woman uncovered one eye as this indirect 

 thrust was delivered at one of her well-known weaknesses. 



"The' can't nob'dy say 'at ever I went tu a fun'al on'y 

 f'm a sense o' duty, aouten respect tu the deseased an' tu 

 comfort the livin'," she protested in broken accents, "but 

 I declare tu goodness Capting Hill, I won't never go nigh 

 yourn." 



"It's hopesin' I won't give ye no 'casionfer a c'nsid'able 

 spell yit, Eunice," said the veteran, smiling grimly, 

 "but I didn't come here tu jaw wi' women. I come here 

 on business wi' Samwil," and he turned toward him with- 

 out the softening of a line in his stern old visage. 



"Hunters is some like sogers in hengin' tugether, an' I 

 heng tu you, not 'at you're much of a hunter but ye would 

 ha' ben ef I'd hed the bringin' on ye up, but you haint tu 

 blame fer that. I've jest hearn 'at you've got yer foot intu 

 a reg'lar bear-trap that blasted Bascom sot fer ye. That 

 comes o' bein' tew tarnal clever an' good-natered, which 

 it is the on'y fault o' hunters, an' what allers added me. 

 The idee is, naow, tu git ye aout on't, an' I come over tu 

 tell ye 'at I've jest drawed my year's pension, namely, 

 ninety-six dollars, nine-ty six dollars in money, an' I'm 

 goin' tu let ye hev it long as you're a min' tu, 'thaout use, 

 twenty year, mebby. I shan't want it till I git kin'e ol' 

 an' gin aout." 



The while he spoke, Gran'ther Hill drew out a tanned 

 heart-case from his pocket and took out of it a roll of 

 crisp new banknotes which he now began to count out on 

 the table, and having laboriously completed the unusual 

 task, shoved them toward Sam. 



"I thank ye more'n I c'n tell, Cap'n Hill," Sam said in 

 a shaking voice, "but I can't take it. I can't give ye no 

 s'curity, an' my note haint wuth the paper it's wrote on 

 naow. I couldn't take it, Cap'n." 



"Damn the s'curity. Gim me yer dawg. I sh'ld like 

 tu own a ninety-six dollar t haoun' dawg. Come, ye got 

 tu take it, Sammy." 



Sam shook his head. "No, Cap'n, I can't take it naow, 

 but I'll tell ye what I'll du, if wust comes tu wust, I'll ask 

 ye for 't, an' I'm as 'bleeged tu you as if I hed the money 

 in my pocket," and he thrust the notes back into the 

 veteran's unwilling hand. 



"Wei, ef ye won't hev it no other way, so be it," he said, 

 returning it to the heart-case and that to his pocket. 



"I don't see no way," whimpered Mrs. Purington; 

 having regained her speech and improving the first op- 

 portunity to exercise it, "no way but fer you, Huldy, tu 

 take Bub, an' come hum till things gits settled. The'll be 

 turrible onpleasant things 'at you c'n jest as well git red 

 on. The'll be the vandue, which the hull haouse '11 be 

 run over wuss 'an a donation party, thank goodness, they 

 won't hafter be fed — sheriff's vandue — a-peekin' intu all 

 the charmbers,an' a-trackin' f'm suller tu garrit, fer there'll 

 be mud, the' allers is, an' a-seein' your vallerdest things 

 sol' afore your face an' eyes, fer mos' nothin'. You take 

 Bub an' come hum." 



"Mother," Huldah's voice was tremulous with sup- 

 pressed indignation and her face flushed with anger, 

 "What sort of a fairweather wife du you s'pose I be, tu 

 sneak off an' leave my man tu stan'- the brunt on 't alone? 

 It was fer richer er poorer 'at I promised tu take Sam, an' 

 what I promise 1 stan' tu, jes' as he does. What hits one, 

 hits both, an' the heft one kerries, t'other takes the' sheer 

 on." 



"I do' know but you'd better, Huldy," Sam said, "It'll 

 be almighty onpleasant for ye here, as yer mother says." 



"I've gone snucks wi' you in all the pleasant things 

 we've come tu, an' so I shall in them that haint." She 

 tossed the boy upon her shoulder and took him to his 

 father, into whose arms she thrust him, where, clinging 

 to Sam's neck, he cast furtive wondering backward 

 glances at his grandmother's woebegone face and the 

 grim visage of Gran'ther Hill. 



"Bub haint a-goin' tu leave his daddy in the ruts, is he, 

 nor his mother nuther?" she said, kissing his plump cheek. 



"Neow then, Sammy," said Gran'ther Hill, starting in 

 his chair with a sudden recollection, "if you've got any 

 cider 'at's good fer the time o' year as it was this time 

 las' year I want some on 't, fer I'm nigh about kiln-dried 

 wi' talkin' an' hearin' talk. Light a light an' I'll go ri' 

 daown suller wi' ye, for Lisher and Timerthy don't need 

 none, 't aint nourishin' 'nough fer sech ol' critters. Why, 

 they've gone!" as his eyes sought the corner where they 

 had last been. Having received all they desired of Mrs. 

 Purington's consolation they had retired unnoticed to the 

 shop. 



As Gran'ther Hill carefully descended the stairs behind 

 Sam, placing each foot twice on every step, he ground 

 his gums till nose and chin met, and whispered hoarsely: 



"By the Lord Harry, Lovel, I'll give ye the $96 aout 

 an' aout if you'll jes' le' me choke that mother-'n-law o' 

 yourn one minute." Rowland E. Robinson. 



A NEW-SUBSCRIBER OFFER. 



A bona fide new subscriber sending us $5 will receive for that sum 

 the Forest and Stream one year (price 5f4) and a set of Zimmerman's 

 famous "Ducking Scenes" (advertised on another page, price 85)— a 

 $9 value for $5. 



This offer is to new subscribers only. It does not apply to renewals. 



For $S a bona fide new subscriber for six months will receive the 

 Forest and Stream during that time and a copy of Dr. Van Fleet's 

 handsome work,J"Bird;Portraitf» for th« Younjr" (the price of which 



is SO; 



