46 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[Jan. 18, 1886. 
"hit Mp ar tz n i ;m Sowfet* 
UNCLE LISHA'S OUTING.-IX. 
A Night Flitting. 
A SIDE-TRACK OF THE V. G. R. K. 
The shadows of the trees that skirted the west shore 
stretched far across the marsh and channel as Sam drove 
the canoe up the creek with quick, strong strokes, quite 
regardless of the throngs of incoming waterfowl that 
swept past him or those already arrived that arose from 
the marsh on either hand and the open water before him, 
for he had left the temptation of the gun behind him. 
When he entered the East Slang all lesser shadows were 
dissolved in the overwhelming shadow of the Adiron- 
dacks, and when he stepped *on shore at the old camp 
landing the twilight was thickening into gloom in the 
woods through which he took the now dimly-defined path 
and hastened toward the log house of the negro. 
When he came in sight of it, it was a dark blotch in the 
clearing against the faint light of the afterglow with one 
spot of light in it, where a candle shone from its single 
front window. As he approached he heard the voices 
and frequent laughter of his acquaintances of the morn- 
ing, with the softer voice of a woman sometimes breaking 
in. He knocked at the door and the voices were suddenly 
hushed, and in the stillness he heard the puff that blew 
out the candle, followed by excited whispers and cautious 
steps across the floor. He knocked again and the 
woman's voice demanded: 
"Who's there?" 
"Ifs me I Sam Lovel! the man 'at was here this morn- 
in'. I want tu speak tu the man they call James." 
There was more whispering before Jim asked, jerking 
out the words with the characteristic nervous twitches of 
the head that Sam could almost see in spite of the inter- 
vening door. 
"What d' you want? Be you alone? Can't you talk 
through the door?" 
"I don't want tu holler," said Sam in a low voice, 
answering the last question first. "Its suthin' 'baout the 
man 'at you call your brother er cousin. He wants tu be 
makin' himself sca'ce 'raoun' here. I'm all alone, an' 
you needn't be afeard tu open the door." 
After more whispering inside, the door was unfastened 
and cautiously opened far enough for Jim to thrust his 
head outside and assure himself of Sam"s identity and 
that he was alone. Then the door was held wide open 
and the visitor invited to enter by a jerk of the head and 
motion of the hand. The door was closed so quickly 
behind Sam that it nearly caught the skirts of his coat. 
By the glimmer of light from the stove he saw the lilting, 
dancing negro of the morning transformed into a stern, 
threatening giant confronting him with an axe uplifted 
above his shoulder. The figure of a woman shrank 
behind the stove with a child, wide-eyed with fright and 
wonder, clinging to her gown. 
"You needn't be af eared tu light your light an' see who 
I be," said Sam. ' 'The' hain't nob'dy else." 
While Jim relighted the candle with a spliuter the 
others looked intently at Sam, as his features grew dis- 
tinct in the increasing glow, when being assured that his 
honest face masked no evil purpose, the tall negro lowered 
his axe and the woman, a handsome mulatto, sat down 
and took the child upon her knee. 
Sam told them of his suspicion that the visitors at camp 
were in search of Jim's guest, "and naow," he said in 
conclusion, "the chances is they'll be here arter you to- 
morrow. I've laid in with a feller tu take ye tu Canerdy 
on his boat, but he won't go afore to-morrow night or 
nex' day, an' you'll haf ter lay low either in the woods or 
up tu Mr. Bartletf s. I cal'late his haouse is the best place, 
an' I come tu take ye up there an' tell him abaout gittin' 
on ye off, an' if that suits ye we'll be a-moggin' soon as 
you c'n git ready." 
"I'se ready," said Bob, snatching his hat and coat from 
a peg on the log wall and moving toward the door. 
"It don't take Bob long tu pack his trunk, no sir," Jim 
said with a nervous laugh. "Lord, haow you did scare 
me when you knocked. Twice in one day is 'baout often 
'nough to scare a man in one day, yes, sir! But naow 
you're putty nigh scarin' of me ag'in. You s'pose them 
fellers r'ally was huntin' arter Bob?" 
"I'se ready," Bob repeated as he drew a small pistol 
from his coat pocket, and turning stooped to the candle 
light to examine the cap. Replacing it in his pocket he 
turned to Sam and said: 
"I s'pec's you're gwine ter sot me 'cross de run, Marse 
Lovel?" 
"The run? O, the Slang; yes, I was cal'latin' tu, an' tu 
go up tu Mr. Bartlett's with ye. I want tusee him. My 
canew's up there tu the landin'." 
"What I you didn't never come clean 'raound to the 
Slang to-night? You might ha' come right acrost the 
crik no time." 
"I didn't know who might be a-watchin'," Sam an- 
swered. "The longest way 'raoun's the surest. Come, 
le's be a-moggin'." 
"I'se done b'en ready," said Bob. "Goo'-bye, Nancy; 
goo'-bye, little Jimmy. De good Lawd bress ye an' ta' 
keer on ye." 
He shook hands with the woman and laid his huge 
hand on the child's curly head, and then stretched it out 
to Jim. 
"Goo'-bye, Jeems, er is you gwine 'long?" 
"You stay along wi' me, Jim," said the woman, anx- 
iously. 
The two negroes looked at him suspiciously, and ex- 
changed questioning glances. 
"I guess I'll go a piece," Jim said, with an emphatic 
jerk of the head. 
"All right, suit yourself. I only cal'lated it 'ould look 
better if anybody come. S'posin' you put the light aout 
ag'in, so the' can't nob'dy see us goin' aout." 
Jim blew out the candle and the three went out into 
the night, now lighted only by the stars and the flicker of 
the northern lights. 
They took their way across the clearing at a brisk pace, 
Jim taking the lead as being most familiar with the path, 
Sam next and the runaway in the rear. The latter cast 
frequent glances behind and started nervously when an 
alarmed bird fluttered suddenly from a bush or some 
night prowler scurried among the fallen leaves and dry 
twigs, while Sam and Jim held steadily on, quite regard- 
less of such harmless sounds. Feeling their way more 
slowly along the unseen wood path, they came to where 
they saw the stars again, then saw them repeated in the 
still water of the channel, and then were at the landing. 
There was a soft splash in the channel like the cautious 
dip of an oar. 
"Fo' de Lawd," Bob gasped, starting back and thrusting 
his hand in his pocket, "dem fellers out dar layin' fo' me. 
My Gawd, Marse Lovel, you ain't de man to fool a pore 
niggah what's bein' hunted to de eends of de airth!" and 
he tried to scan Sam's face in the dim starlight, but hold- 
ing aloof in a half-crouching attitude that might be a 
preparation for either a fight or a run. 
"I guess it hain't nothin' but a mushrat or a duck," 
Sam whispered, looking intently in the direction of the 
sound, "but mebby Jim hed better shove aout there in his 
canew an' see." 
Jim pushed his dugout to the edge of the channel and 
presently jerked back a loud disjointed whisper. 
"Everything's all right. Jest as dear's a Christian's 
eye. Yes, sir, jist egzackly." 
With this assurance Bob took his place in the canoe 
where Sam had already kneeled, with his paddle in his 
hand, and he now pushed out and laid his craft alongside 
of Jim's. 
"I do' know jest where I'm a goin' tu land," he said 
with a questioning inflection. 
"You go up 'baout fifty rods an' you'll come tu the John 
Clark place, where ol' John Clark alius used tu fish. You 
can run right up to the hard bank there. Mr. Bartlett's 
is the f urdest north in that string o' lights. You put right 
straight for it an' you'll strike a big holler where a brook 
runs, which you cross it an' follow up the north bank an' 
you'll kit the secont road right by his haouse. I guess I 
won't go no furder an' I'll bid you good-bye, Bob, an' 
good luck tu ye." 
"Goo'-bye, Jeems, ta' keer yo'se'f, boy." 
They shook hands across the gunwales and the bark 
canoe slid silently up the channel, breaking the smooth 
surface with wake and paddle strokes that set the mir- 
rored stars a-dancing and startled the sleeping ducks to 
sudden noisy flight. Without greater incident the brief 
voyage was made, and the two men set forth across the 
fields, guided by the house light and the deep-cut water 
course to which they presently came. They approached 
the first road with scarcely a precaution of secrecy, for 
there was not a house upon it nearer than the tavern at 
the corner, where the bar room lights shone out with hos- 
pitable gleam. 
They were beginning to climb the fence when they 
heard the sound of a wagon and voices in low but earnest 
conversation close at hand and drawing nearer. Then 
they saw the intermittent glow of a pipe, and as they sank 
back and crouched in a weed-grown fence corner they 
caught a whiff of its odor. 
"Fo' de Lawd," Bob whispered, sniffing it eagerly, "I 
hain't felt de smell o' no terbacca lak dat sence I done lef ' 
01' Ferginny." 
Sam laid a cautionary hand on his arm. "What be they 
talkin' 'bout?" 
The wagon stopped almost in front of them, and as its 
clatter and the footfalls of the horse ceased the guarded 
voices of the occupants were distinctly heaad. 
"I tell you the rwud cross lots is consid'able furder on," 
said one. "The' hain't no gap ner barway here, fer I c'n 
see stakes an' caps tu ev'ry corner." 
Sam held his breath while he knew that two pairs of 
eyes were closely scanning the fence and the very corner 
where he crouched beside his companion, whose hand he 
could hear stealthily creeping to the pocket that held the 
pistol. 
"I reckon yo' ah right," the other occupant of the 
wagon said at last, and Sam recognized the smooth voice 
of the quiet visitor at camp, "but 'pears like we'd come 
fah enough." 
"No, sir," the other rejoined emphatically, "the's a 
reg'lar rwud when we come tu it, an' it runs through a 
paster. This 'ere's a medder, I can see a stack a-loomin' 
up." 
"All right," the other conceded, "go ahade and hurry 
up yo' cakes, foh I'll be bound Baker and his man's thah 
with the boat foh now." 
The driver spoke sharply to his horse and the wagon 
went rattling down the road at a rapid pace. 
"Wal," said Sam, rising and letting out his long-held 
breath, "I cal'late you stayed to Jim's 'baout as long as was 
healthy for ye." 
"Sho's yo' bawn, Marse Lovel! Dat 'ar man saoun' des 
lak Cap'n Clahk," Bob whispered excitedly. "De 
shaapes' man faw huntin' niggahs dey is in all dem 
pahts. Lawd, if I didn't t'ink he was lookin' right 
squaar' at me." 
"Wal, he hain't a-huntin' on his own groun', an' that 
makes lots o' odds. My sakes, won't they hev fun a- 
hoofin' on't 'raound the head o' the Slang in the dark! 
It would be tew all-killin' bad if they should break the' 
necks a-tumblin' through the woods." 
When the two came to the broad stage road, no one 
was astir in the quiet neighborhood, and leaving Bob 
hidden in an adjacent fence corner, Sam went to Friend 
Bartlett's kitchen door and knocked. He heard the 
familiar sound of a pipe rapped on the stove hearth, then 
stockinged feet bumping across the floor and the door was 
opened by a shock-headed Irishman. 
"Good evenin'," said Sam. "Is Mr. Bartlett tu hum?" 
"Noathin," the man answered. "He's gahn to the vil- 
lage beyant t' a timperance matin'. It's a moral reformed 
droonkard they calls him, bes lacter'n'," 
"Wal, I sh'ld like tu see Mis' Bartlett then." 
"Is it themisthres? Thin it's herself that wint wid him. 
Divil the wan o' thim in it but the daughter an' mesilf 
an' the gyrl." 
"When do you think they'll be back?" 
"Divil a know, I know I'll hould yez the price of a quart, 
the moral reformed crather '11 be afther blatherin' till 
nine o'clock, yis tin, be gab, an' they'll be to hear the last 
wurrud." 
Sam's heart sank at the poor prospect of communicating 
with Friend Bartlett. "You was sayin' suthin' about his 
darter. Is she a growed up woman or a leetle gal?" he 
asked. 
"It's a fine lump of a wummun she is, thin; nearly as 
big as the mother, an' it's herself has the rarnin'. She 
been to schule to all the Nine Partners." * 
* A celebrated Quaker boarding school situated in the township of 
Nine Partners in the State of New York. 
"Wal, then," said Sam, "I can't du no better 'n to see 
her if you'll ask her tu step tu the door a minute." 
The Irishman, going to the door of another room, spoke 
to some one therein, and presently a handsome young 
woman came forth. Her plain dress wore some un- 
Gjuakerly adornments, but her face was so kindly that 
Sam felt sure she must be in full sympathy with her 
parents in all benevolent work. 
"Good evenin', Miss Bartlett; I fetched up a couple o' 
ducks tu your father, an' I wanted tu speak tu him abaout 
a little business." 
"Yes," she said, with a questioning affirmative, as she 
took the proffered ducks. "Thee may leave any message 
for father with me. Why, these ducks are very nice, and 
I'm sure he'll be very much obliged to thee. What is it 
thee wants me to tell him?" 
"It's a kinder private business," said Sam, looking past 
her at the Irishman, who stood near the stove with an 
attentive ear turned toward them. "An' if you'd jest 
step aout an' shet the door a minute." 
"Michael, won't thee please take these ducks down cel- 
lar and hang them up? Aren't they nice ones?" Marga- 
ret Bartlett said, and then to Sam, as Michael, taking the 
ducks and a candle, disappeared in the cellarway, "Won't 
thee come in?" 
Sam declined and she stepped out, closing the door be- 
hind her. 
"You tell your father," Sam hastened to say in a low 
voice, "'at ther' 's som'b'dy arter that nigger an' they 've 
faound aout where he was hid, so I fetched him up here." 
"The colored man at James's? Where is he?" Margaret 
asked anxiously. "Thee mustn't let Michael see him. 
Father doesn't think he can be trusted in such matters." 
"No, somehaow Paddies hates niggers. I do' know 
why. I don't hanker arter 'em myself, but I hain't no 
grudge ag'in 'em. I didn't cal'late tu hev nob'dy see him 
but your father, an' hid him in the fence aout here. But 
he can't stay there all night, an' what be I goin' tu du 
with him?" 
"Thee must put him in the barn, in the bay on the west 
side of the barn floor. No one will go there, and I'll tell 
father when he comes." 
"All right, an' you tell your father 'at I've laid in wi' a 
Canuck 'at's a buyin' apples tu take the nigger tu Can- 
erdy in a day or two. Your father'll want tu take 
daown a lwud to-morrer an' find aout when, an' we'll git 
the nigger there tu rights." 
"I wish thee wouldn't call colored people niggers," said 
Margaret. 
"Why," said Sam, "that's what he calls himself, an' I 
rather guess from his looks he is one. Good night. I'll 
mow him away all right." 
Groping his way into the unknown interior of the 
barn, guided only by feeling and a knowledge of the 
common internal arrangement of barns in general, Sam 
led his charge to this safe retreat, and bidding him good- 
bye departed on his devious, dark and solitary way back 
to camp. 
As he silently passed the landing where Jim's dugout 
lay he saw the light of a lantern glimmering unsteadily 
along the wood path and heard the hunters returning in 
bad humor from their unsuccessful quest, stumbling and 
grumbling over the rough trail. 
"Wal," said Sam to himself, as he listened to their 
floundering progress up the wooded bank of the Slang, 
"you faound the holler tree, but the coon wa'n't in it. 
By the gre't horn spoon! I'd ha gi'n a fo'pence tu ha' 
be'n there an' seen 'em an' seen Jim shake that head o' 
his'n." 
When he reached the mouth of the Slang he heard the 
regular sound of oars and saw another light steadily 
advancing up the channel of the Creek, shining far along 
the quiet water before it, while glittering reflections flick- 
ered out like floating sparks where the wake stirred the 
rushes. 
Sam ran his canoe into the weeds till the other boat had 
passed, The lantern shining on the face of the man in the 
stern revealed the features of Baker, the other visitor at 
the camp, 
"You planned it fust-rate," Sam soliloquized again, 
"but it's a dre'f'l poor night for huntin' niggers. O, you 
cussed slinks! I don't lay it up so much ag'in that other 
feller, for that's the way he was brought up; but you,Ver- 
monters, huntin' niggers! Damn ye! I'd liter sink ye in 
the mud!" 
So, by turns boiling with wrath and chuckling over the 
discomfiture of the slave hunters, Sam pursued his way to 
where the candle was burning low in the socket of the tin 
lantern which was hung out to beacon him to the upper 
landing. Rowland E, Robinson. 
The Singing Mouse. 
We are beguiled by simple, gentle words into listening to the song 
of the Singing Mouse, who has the magician's power to conjure back 
the paBt and to win us to forget the sordid present. We must all envy 
the author's fortune to evoke the gentle sprite who persuades us that 
"thoughts and remembrances, these are the things that live forever. 
It is only the shadows that are real."— Philadelphia Public Ledger. 
During the long winter nights the old Didians seat themselves be- 
fore the fire and carve bows, ornament club handles, and feather and 
point arrows. Perhaps in some of the tepees hang polished guns fur- 
nished by the Government, but they are more for ornament than use. 
This evening work is accompanied by the low croaking of some old 
Indian, who tells over and over again the legends, folk lore and 
nursery tales of their grandfathers and grandmothers. The Haida 
tribe is more rapidly advancing in civilization than any of its neigh- 
bors, yet they still carve and point bows, arrows, club handles and 
paddles. The Indians still cling to other rude implements and take 
not kindly to metal ones. Rude knives of chert are still used for 
skinning deer, especially by the old Indians. The axe, of course, is 
employed for cutting trees and excavating canoes and mortars. It 
has really taken the place of the stone chisel, yet many old men pre- 
fer burning the roots of the tree until it can be made tb fall by giving 
it a few hacks with the rude stone hatchet.— Fort Still (0. T.) Corre- 
spondence Buffalo Express. 
C. L. Bartlett, who was in Washington for two or three years, but 
who now has a place in southwestern Virginia, is in the city and told 
me of a deer he owns. "I have raised the deer," he said, "from the 
time he was a fawn, and Frank, as we call him, is a great favorite 
throughout that section of country. He will come to my call and fol- 
low me like a dog. Bnt his principal value is as a decoy. There are 
a few wild deer left in that country, though not many, and occasion- 
ally I hunt them. When I do Frank goes with me. He will And them 
if there are any, and will call them to me. Then, if there is a buck, 
he will make a sound that is a wager of battle, and the wiid animal 
will make a rush for him. Then Frank runs right back to where I am 
and I shoot his antagonist. In case of a doe he leads her up very 
close to me without any semblance of fight. By his aid I killed ten 
deer last winter in a country where they are scarce."— Washington 
Star.] 
