122 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[Feb. i6, igoi. 
In Old Virginia —IX. 
The next day was a Longfellow's day — "cold and dark 
and dreary," with the rain and wind in evidence. Putting 
on my rain coat and pulling my cap well over my ears, I 
strolled down to the barn to find some one to srnoke and 
grumble with. The farm manager was not in sight, but 
two boys were sorting over the now much depleted corn 
pile in the large crib. 
They had worked out a cleared space on the floor and 
were throwing the good corn in a pile to the front near 
the door, while the nubbins and defective ears were 
thrown to one side near the wall. 
It was not exciting, but nothing better offering, I 
climbed in over the pile of good corn and sat down upon 
an empty nail keg to smoke and feel glad that I did not 
have to work. 
The outlook was gloomy in the extreme, and every living 
thing in sight seemed in a low barometer condition. 
Chickens, in the last stage of dejection, with their bodies 
on a slant that seemed to threaten an entire shifting of 
the center of gravity to the rear, stood around in every 
spot that afforded the slightest shelter; the hogs con- 
tested, with little animation and much complaining, for a 
corner of the fence partially sheltered by a spreading tree, 
while over in the pasture lot stood several young mules 
close up together with drooping heads, too dejected even 
to kick one another. 
Truly there is much poetry and sentiment in the coun- 
try, but it is not waterproof. 
Turning from the gloomy outlook, I found one of the 
toys contemplating a half-grown rat that was with diffi- 
culty making its way up the post near the far corner of 
the crib, disturbed by the boys who now had but a few 
barrels of corn left. Here was sport. Gathing a handful 
of nubbins, I opened fire on the rat and soon brought it 
down. 
Another showed up, and another, and then, as the corn 
pile grew less, several ran out at one time, making the 
fun — such as it was — fast and furious. 
I was not the skillful marksman that I had been in the 
dim and distant past, when, as pitcher for the invincible 
Modoc Baseball Club, I could put ten balls in succession in 
a i2-inch circle, and pitch out a game lasting from i 
o'clock until dark, with from sixty to one hundred runs 
on a side, but I was occasionally throwing true and bag- 
ging a rat, and having a great deal more fun in the effort 
than I had enjoyed while looking out on the dreary land- 
scape. 
Finally the boys put up a whole covey of rats, and being 
well provided with ammunition, I fairly filled the air with 
missiles, and having exhausted my supply, stooped quickly 
to the floor to gather more, and found myself right over, 
with my hands all but on, a big blacksnake that was 
crawling out of the corn immediately between my feet. 
Nearly as thick as my arm. I could only guess at his 
length, as he was not entirely out of the corn, but I should 
have believed any one who had called his measure lo 
feet. I stand any surprise better than a snake — ^large or 
small— and to have this great horrible reptile appear so 
unexpectedly was awful. 
With an involutary exclamation of terror, I turned and 
flung myself at the door, striking the pile of corn high 
enough to go over, and head first I pitched out the door, 
bouncing off of the blocks set for steps, and falling in a 
heap on the muddy ground at the feet ©f the surprised 
farm manager, who was approaching. 
Scrambling to my feet, I proceeded to back off a little 
further from the door, looking carefully for any sign 
of the snake. 
"Do you always come out of a crib that way, or did 
you fall?" said the surprised manager. 
"You go get your gun," said I. "Get it quick as you 
can; there is the biggest snake in there that ever you 
saw. Hurry, hurry! He may get away." 
"Is it black?" was the irrelevant answer._ 
"Yes, I believe it was, and an awful big one. Go on 
quick and get your gun before it escapes." 
"Well, I hope it will not escape, as I have had an awful 
lot of trouble getting it to .stay there this long, and have 
caught it several times and put it back when it was emi- 
grating. It won't hurt you any more than a cat, and is a 
much better ratter." 
With as much indignant scorn as I could throw into my 
voice, I proceeded to tell him what I thought of any man 
who would cultivate such pets, and especially without 
putting up some notices to warn people who had not such 
vicious tendencies and low taste. 
"Well, I am sorry," said he, "but if you knew how 
annoying the rats get to be you would not blame me for 
resorJng to any method to get rid of them. Come down 
to the barn, where I have some harness to mend, and we 
can tell snake stories. 
"Funny, isn't it, that no man can ever see a snake with- 
out being reminded of one or more narratives that he 
then and there proceeds to tell to the first auditor he can 
corral. 
"My story dates back to boyhood days, and I have not 
thought of it for years, until you said snake, and now I 
am actually suffering under the weight of it," 
Comfortably reclining on a pile of sacks, I watched the 
manager and old Uncle John overhauling the worn harness 
that had been laid aside as rainy day work, while I listened 
to the story. 
"When a little fellow I lived up on the James River, and 
spent much time fishing and swimming. One day, while 
fishing with a companion, we discovered a small snake, 
which, after a most exciting chase among the loose rock 
and pebbles of the river bank, escaped under a large flat 
rock. . 
"Our united efforts failed to move the rock, and we 
were reluctantly abandoning the chase, when far up on 
the steep overhanging bank appeared a friend of ours 
whom we called Dutchey Pfouts. Dutchey was the son 
of a German butcher whose slaughter house stood a little 
way back from the river. He was a kind-hearted young 
giant, always ready to do anything in his power for us, 
and now came down at once to our call The situation ex- 
plained to him, he g-ssured us that he could move thq 
TQCkr 
" 'Yust you git some shticks,' he commanded, 'und ven 
I dose rock lift oup, fly in und kill him quick before he 
vas got avay alretty.' 
"Arming ourselves and taking positions in front of the 
rock, we waited in great excitement while our friend 
settled himself firmly, with a foot on either side of the 
rock, and grasped its outer edge with his strong hands. 
Settling back, liis great shoulders and bicep muscles stand- 
ing out with the strain, he tore the rock loose and raised 
it up a foot or more.. 
"He could not raise it higher, so leaned over with his 
face close to the edge, in order that he might see what was 
under it. At the same moment we boys dropped down 
on our knees, close up to the stone, to peer under, and an 
instant later, when our eyes became accustomed to the 
dim' light, we found our three faces within a foot of a 
mass of snakes, big and little, that looked like enough to 
fill a tub, and they were begirining to untwist, preparing, 
as we thoitght, to resent the disturbance. 
"With a simultaneous shriek of terror we boys pitched 
over backward, and scrambling to our feet turned and 
sped up the steep bank, feeling that the highest point 
promised the greatest safety from the pursuit that we felt 
sure the snakes would make. Dutchey was but an instant 
behind us. Dropping the rock with a yell that echoed 
among the hills on the further bank of the river like a 
steam whistle, he shouted : 
" 'Run, poys ! Run ! My ghracious ! Dere vas a pushel 
of schnakes. Dey vill pit you all to bieces, shure. Don't 
you sthop for dem feesh pole line or nottings. R-r-r-un ! 
R-r-r-un!' And never was a command more literally 
carried out, for without regarding the path, which wound 
its way up the steep bank, we went straight up the nearest 
available point, throwing a perfect stream of loose dirt 
and sand behind us as we plied hands and feet to the task, 
not one of us pausing until we reached our friend Dutchey 
Pfouts' father's slaughter house, a safe distance back from 
the river bank." 
"Marse Gawge," said old Uncle John, as soon as the 
story was finished, "I ain' nevah tell yo' 'bout de time 
dat I spicioned dey was a snak* done jump up my breeches 
leg, is I?" 
I had noticed that though much interested in the man- 
ager's reminiscence, the old darky was evidently suffering 
under the burden of his snake story, and was not sur- 
prised at his prompt play for next place. 
Smallpox, whooping cough or measles is not more 
contagious than snake stories, as you will notice when you 
lay this paper down at the end of this article and pro- 
ceed to tell your wife (if a benedict) or your chum (if a 
bachelor) your snake story. 
"Dat was w'en I was a boy, too— des like de time yo' 
tell 'bout. Marse John Carrington, he come to see we 
all, and he bring a boy wid him he call Tom. Tom, he 
'bout my size, an' I des 'bout big 'nuf to wait at de table. 
Marse Wint an' all de folks livin' 'roun' have big to-doin's 
to make de visitors have a good time, and w'en dey all 
go 'way, sometimes to spen' de day, Marse Wint he tell 
me to let de wuk go an' have a good time an' entertain de 
boy Tom. 
"One day, when dey was all gone an' we didn' know 
des what to do, Tom he say he wisht we had a gun so we 
could go huntin', I tol' him dat ole Unc' Zeke had a pow'- 
ful good giTu, a muskit dat dey all said was a fine shooter. 
Tom ast me if I kin borry it, an' I 'low'd I could, caus' 
Unc' Zeke done gone wid de folks to drive de kerridge, an' 
mos' likely hadn't locked his cabin doh. Hit was des as I 
say, an' we soon had de gun an' some caps, but we couldn' 
fin' no ammernishun. Den it look lak we goin' haf to 
git 'long widout 'goin' huntin' 'tall an' Tom he seem 
pow'ful disapp'inted. I 'membah den dat Marse Wint 
done tol' me to do all I kin to mak' Tom hav' a good 
time, an' so I des go an' borry some of his powdah an' 
shot, an' we lit out. , , 
"We went to shootin' at everythmg in de way of birds 
we saw, markin' birds, javbirds, crows, buzzuds an' an ole 
har', but we didn't kill none of dem. Tom, he say hit 
'cause we hadn' load de ole gun big 'nuff, but I say hit 
caus' we ain't pi'nt hit rite. But Tom, he 'low he know 
all 'bout guns, an' he say yo' got to load um big^ if yo 
wan' to do good shootin' wid um. Den he des pi'ntedly 
put in a load dat he say was a shoah killah. A han'ful of 
powda, a wad of papah mos' big as yo' fis, a han'ful of 
shot, an' mo papah, 'til de rammer-rod hit stood outen de 
eend mos' a foot. I 'low he wus rite 'bout it bem' a kil- 
lah, at one eend or de oddah of de gun— mebby bofe— an| 
I ax him to 'scuse me when he say hit my nex' shot, an 
tol' him he could have it. We went 'long down to de 
pon' den, to see if we couldn' see a duck, or turkle or som 
kin' of game, De grass wus high 'long de aidge of de 
pon', an' I wen' trompin' 'long in hit tryin' to skeer out 
somethin'. Now I reckon yo' gentlemens know how fool- 
ish dese big longlegged green bullfrogs is, an' how, w'en 
you' skeer one, he des up an' jumps his level bes' des de 
way he happen to be headin' ? Well, I des happen to step 
rite ovah one dat was a-pi'ntin' up, an he strai'ten out an' 
jump rite up my breeches leg 'til his fron' feet go bove 
my knees, an' he stretch down 'til his hin' feet wus on my 
shoe top. , .1 ■ , ^ 
"He sho wus cole on my laig, an dey wasn t nothm to 
keep him from gitten clos' to me, for my mammy vvus 
washin' my socks. I made shoh hit was a snake, an a 
big one an' des began to hollah as loud as I could hol- 
lah, an' jump as high as I could an' kick as fas' as I could. 
"Tom he come runnin' wid de gun, an' he ast me what 
de matta was, an' I hollah big snake up my breeches laig 
des fas' as I could say de words. Den Tom, he up wid 
dat ole gun, loaded wid de big load I was tellin yo bout 
an' he hollah : ... , < t , , i • 
"'tlol' still; des yo' hoi' yo' leg still 'turl I shoot him. 
Stop yo' jumpin' an kickin' des a minit an I U kill him 
fo' you',' pi'ntin' de gun at me des well as he could wid 
me a-jumpin' an' kickin' my level bes'. , • , 
"Hit skeered me wus den de frog had done, an I giv a 
big kick an' sent de ole frog a-flyin', an' saw him hte all 
spraddled out in de watah, an' what hit wus, an dat 1 
wusn't snake bit. But I couldn' stop jumpm an I 
couldn' stop kickin', foh dat fool niggah wid de gun^wus 
des plum crazy an' was tryin' his bes' to git de gun pi nted 
at my leg long 'nuff to shoot de snake dat he lowed wus 
up m'y breeches laig. ■ , v r i • ' 
"'G'way fom yere! G way fom yere! Ya fool nig- 
gah you! Drap dat gun, de snake done gone, de am no 
snake; de ssake is de'd.' I kep' hollahm' fas as I could. 
but hit ain' no use, he des keep on a runnin' aftah me an' 
hollahin' foh me to hoi' still foh 'low him to shoot de 
snake. I was des 'bout to giv' out, an' yit I know'd dat he 
would shoot my laig off ef I stop jumpin' a minit, so I des 
turn an' jump in de pon', des fah out in de watah as I 
kin, an' soon as I com' up I hollah des loud as I kin: 
'He don' drownded!. He don' drownded! De snake is 
de'd, des de'd as he kin be,' an' Tom he com' back to his 
senses an' put de gun down. 
"I 'lowed as I come crawlin' out de watah dat I would 
frail some sense into dat fool boy dat had want to shoot 
my laig off to kill a snake, but I wus too woh out wid my 
jumpin' an' kickin' to do hit rite away, an' while I wus 
gittin' my bref an' restin' some, a jay bud he lite on a tree 
tol'able close by, an' Tom he sneak ilp a little an' turn de 
ole gun loose at him. 
"He mite a-killed de bird, an' he mite not, I ain' rievah 
see de bird aftah de old gun wen' off, I was so lookin' at 
Tom. She sound, like a big clap of thundali, an' she 
kick dat boy 'twel a mule would a be'n ashamed of his- 
self ; clean ovah a big ole log an' two piles of rock hit 
drove him, eend over eend, an' hit peered lik' hit kep' on 
kickin' him w'en he wus fallin' and bouncin'. Hit bus' him 
up so I had to tote my hat full of watah and thro^y on 
him mos' a dozen times foah he knowed anything, an' his 
nose bleed mos' an' houah. an' 'sides his tooths bein' mos' 
all knocked loose. We ain' go huntin' any moah; 'pear 
like wc bofe don' los' our fon'ess foah hit. 
"Dinna bell done ring at de house, .suJi, aij' hit stop 
rainin'." 
And so the rainy morning was got through with. 
Lewts Hopkins. 
A Winter^s Evening. 
The western sky shows no trace of the sinking sun save 
a few bars of orange which emit a melancholy gleam amid 
their somber setting. 
The landscape stretches around like a great etching,_ or 
study in black and white— with here the tone merging 
into brown and there into gray — and all pervaded with 
an indefinable sentiment— a something which the poet only 
can truly appreciate. 
A chill blustering wind is abroad, which seems to in- 
crease as the night grows near. 
Some chickadees and woodpeckers are calling to one 
another, and occasionally a bluejay scrcarns wildly. 
Overhead the homing crows wing their flight to the 
woods which loom upon the horizon. 
Every now and then a shot rings out. muffled by dis- 
tance, telling that the sportsman is still afield. And hark ! 
What is that? It is the rich baying of a hound in pur- 
suit of quarry. How musical it sounds and how it echoes 
among the silent woods ! But it soon ceases,, as do the in- 
termittent shots. 
The light begins to fade and the shadows to deepen over 
the landscape. Here, where we stand, is a lonely farm- 
house by the wayside. It is surrounded by trees, which 
toss and groan in the evening wind. These are 
elms, which have a rough, boisterous way of expressing 
themselves, so to speak. Yonder is a grove of pines, to- 
ward which we move. How differently these express 
themselves. How they whisper or sigh or murmur weird- 
ly, or become, as it were, an echo of the far-off sea. Can 
we wonder that those who live among pine forests have 
more lively imaginations, or at least are more given to 
the creation of myth and legend, than any other people? 
We stroll back to the farmhouse. Nobody appears to be 
about. A few chickens peck along the fences and occa- 
sionallv a calf utters a solemn "baa!" Where the snow 
has melted on the roof (under the influence of the mid- 
day sun), we see patches of moss or weather-stained 
tiles. A few icicles hang by the eaves. Against the front 
door the snow has formed a drift, and the path which 
leads up to it is untrodden. From under the veranda 
stalks of withered weeds protrude. The gate hangs half- 
open upon its hinges. Were it not for the presence of 
the chickens and a thin smoke which ascends from the 
chimney, one would be inclined to say that the house was 
uninhabited. But suddenly we hear a guttural "Gee up !" 
and turning around we see a man with a pair of oxen 
yoked to a rude sleigh, which is covered with logs. He 
passes into the yard of the farmhouse, unyokes his oxen 
and drives them into the stable. After a while he emerges 
and procures a pail, with which he proceeds^ to the cow 
shed. The cows are milked and we see him bear his 
smoking burden into the kitchen. Once more he emerges, 
feeds the calf (whose "baaing" has been becommg very 
importunate), fodders the cattle, shoos some chickens out 
of a tree in which they have roosted (how persistent is 
primitive habit or instinct) and drives them into the fowl- 
house, bolts doors, takes a general look around and then 
retires for good. ^ . ■ 
While all this has been doing, an odor of frying 
"scrapple" has begun to float on the evening air, accona- 
panied by snatches of old-time melodies, full of the in- 
effable sadness of the past. The goodwife is evidently- 
preparing the evening meal and expressing her pleasure 
at her man's return. . 
A light is set in the kitchen window, the reflection of 
which every moment grows brighter and wider. The 
woods on the horizon have become black as ebony, and the 
fields can no longer be defined. Everything grows blurred 
—indistinct. , ,1- 
The chickadees and woodpeckers have ceased calling 
and the bluejay to scream, but an owl in the pine grove 
has taken up his mournful burden. After we have listened 
to this— its dismal uncertain intonations, its gibbering 
graveyard quality — we can ' readily understand why the 
owl has always been such an uncanny bird— such an ob- 
ject of horror even — to the simple-minded or superstitious. 
Indeed, there are those who lay claim to wisdom who 
cannot hear it without a shudder. 
A succession of sharp sounds causes the owl to cease 
its lamentations. It is the barking of a fox on the -hill- 
side. One by one the nocturnal hunters are commg forth. 
A warning note from the fowlhouse tells that the fact is 
not unmarked or unknown there. 
It is now so dark that the sky can no longer be seen. 
No star appears-^the thick clouds hanging on the firma- 
ment. The light in the farmhouse goes out. For a mo- 
ment we are blinded, as it were, but becoming used to the 
new condition, vrt. see around for a few yards the ghostly 
