A Night in the Schoharie Hills. 
The quiet of evening had settled over the 
quaint village of Richmondville. In the valley 
the shadows were enveloping the turbulent 
Schoharie, while the sunlight still lingered 
among faraway mountain peaks, transforming 
the western sky into a canopy of bronze and 
gold. The receding light blotted out the 
gorgeous reds and browns of virgin forests 
and reflected tinges of royal purple into the 
golden flames of sunset. 
The village streets were deserted, except by 
a cluster of nondescript loungers hanging about 
the meat market corner. Singly and in pairs 
the group drifted into stores and hotels, where 
nightly they smoked and talked, until the hour 
custom, without satisfactory reason, dictated as 
the proper time for each to retire to his own 
fireside. 
The last two members of the group strolled 
1 leisurely down the street and entered the post- 
office. Hardly had they settled themselves on 
a cracker barrel and an empty soap boax, be¬ 
fore Stant Leggett appeared. His long, droop¬ 
ing mustache and dilapidated hat flapping about 
his ears with every movement, accentuated his 
hatchet-like face, as he paused on the sill and 
spoke to Old Ring, his canine companion, who 
was tugging impatiently on a rope. Ring 
crouched to the floor, his tail beating a solemn 
! tattoo, and riveted his eyes on the speaker’s 
face in a mute appeal to be off. An ax blade 
glittering on the arm of Stant’s coat explained 
the dog’s anxiety and accounted for his master’s 
i unusual garb. 
“Ikey, tell any of the boys who chance to 
drop around, to meet me at Fat Art’s tavern in 
an hour’s time if they care to go ’coon hunting,” 
he drawled and stepped into the street. 
Old Ring was a mongrel of patrician manner. 
In structure and carriage he resembled the 
shepard-foxhound type of farm dogs found 
about Richmondville. That he also inherited 
a strain of bulldog blood from one of his pro¬ 
genitors was shown in his head and faint brindle 
markings. 
Ring was purchased from a band of gypsies 
when a pup by a Charlotteville farmer, whose 
j intention had been to train him for a churn dog. 
As Stant was returning from a hunting trip 
late one afternoon, his attention was attracted 
by a dog’s persistent barking near Panther 
Gap. Descending the mountainside, he found 
Ring imprisoning a half-grown raccoon in the 
top of a tree. 
After several days’ search, he located the 
dog’s owner, who gladly parted with what 
he considered a worthless possession for an in- 
significent sum. As Stant surmised, Ring 
proved a thoroughly good ’coon dog, and his 
fame spread. Unless securely chained, he 
would steal away and race over the hills. His 
body bore the scars of a hundred contests 
fought alone in the forest. On several oc¬ 
casions, after a prolonged absence, Stant found 
Ring on South Mountain half exhausted, but 
stubbornly sticking to a treed ’coon. 
A young harvest moon was peeking over the 
edge of eastern hilltops as the ’coon hunters 
began drifting into Fat Art’s. The night was 
just cool enough to stimulate to exercise. Stant 
Leggett and Fat Art, Ham Kidder, the car¬ 
penter; “Doc” Brown, the blacksmith; Pat 
Waldorf, the express agent; Columbus Dand, 
whose unusual given name had been shortened 
to “Clumb” by the boys; Sheldon, the barber, 
with his dog Wheat, and a half-dozen others 
were in high spirits as they tramped toward 
South Mountain. Old Ring frisked at the end 
of his leash, whining and wheedling with all the 
arts of canine persuasion, to be liberated while 
his master cajoled him to patience by spicy ad¬ 
monition. Near the Kinicutt farm the party 
abandoned the road and tramped over the 
fields, liberating Ring, who scuttled into a corn¬ 
field, followed by Wheat. On a bit of high 
ground the hunters seated themselves along a 
stone fence. For a long time no sound from 
either dog was heard. Of a sudden the dogs 
gave voice, and they trailed straight for South 
Mountain. The hunters bounded to their feet 
and raced in pursuit. At the forest’s edge they 
halted to light lanterns. Then came the steady 
bay of the dogs at stand, and led by Doc Brown, 
the men tore through the underbrush, heedless 
of sharp twigs and rebounding limbs. At the 
foot of a blasted maple both dogs were making 
the woods ring. When the hunters burst into 
view, Ring was tearing at a hole between its 
roots, and Wheat was vigorously digging. 
“Holler, ain’t it, Ring?” cried Stant, holding 
a lantern aloft and peering into the scraggly 
leafless top. “Sure thing, an’ he went into that 
hole.” 
Shoving the dogs aside, Stant sounded its 
trunk with the back of his ax. “I calculate it’s 
holler clean to the top,’ he announced after a 
hasty inspection; “but we can chop him out.” 
“Build a fire, some of you fellows,” com¬ 
manded Fat Art, “an’ let’s find out if he’s in 
there.” Stripping off his coat, he picked up an 
ax and commenced cutting a hole, soon break¬ 
ing through the thin shell. “Cut me a good 
gad,” he puffed. “Pm not figuring on reach¬ 
ing in that hole; sooner grab a rattlesnake by 
his tail than have a hand chawed off by a ’coon.” 
One of the men thrust a green pole into his 
hands, and he forced it upward. A muffled 
snarl set both dogs yelping. 
“He’s in there, all right enough!” exclaimed 
Clumb. “Close up that hole and we’ll smoke 
him out.” 
The opening was closed with leaves, twigs and 
earth, the aperture at the base enlarged and a 
smudge fire kindled. 
“Wish we had some Cayenne pepper to throw 
on that smudge,” growled Stant; “reckon it 
would kinder hurry him out.” 
“I don’t figure he’ll stand much of that,” 
answered Sheldon as he watched a thin column 
of smoke creep through an opening in the top. 
“Well, ’coons are spunky critters, and some¬ 
times it takes a tollable lot of smoke to start 
’em,” replied Art. 
Amid a shower of decayed wood, a coughing, 
sputtering coon scrambled through the open¬ 
ing and plunged down, striking Art squarely 
between the shoulders. The impact’s tre¬ 
mendous force knocked Art face down, and for 
a moment dog and ’coon fought over Art’s 
prostrate form. The ’coon bounded through the 
bushes and up a neighboring hemlock. 
The flare of a fire brand revealed the ’coon 
crouching on the end of a limb. Art took quick 
aim and fired, bringing the ’coon to earth. 
Men and dogs, tired now, gathered around 
a log watering trough, quenched their thirst 
and talked of the night’s adventure. The moon 
had gone down. Unexpectedly a rattle of 
stones and Old Ring’s notes brought the 
hunters to their feet. They forgot their fatigue 
and plunged down the slope. The ’coon was 
running diagonally down the hill, giving the 
dogs a perceptible advantage. Approaching 
Little Bill Jones’ farmhouse, he darted to one 
side, scrambled to the roof of a low lean-to and 
leaped into an open window. Instantly a cry 
of fear rent the air, followed by the slamming 
of a door. 
“Get out of here, yer hop-picking skunk!” 
bellowed Bill. “Who be you fellers, anyway?” 
he demanded, thrusting his head out of the 
window. 
“Same old tribe,” laughed Stant; “where’s the 
’coon?” 
“Under the bed, by thunder!” exclaimed Bill. 
Get ready, boys, and I’ll razzle-dazzle the measly 
’coon a spell.” 
A sulphur match sputtered and Bill, emitting 
a yell, sent a boot crashing under the bed. An¬ 
other quickly followed and the ’coon dashed 
through the window. Jumping from the roof, 
he was across the yard and up a pear tree be¬ 
fore the dogs could reach him, but Sheldon 
brought him down with a charge of buckshot. 
“Good shot!” shouted Bill from the window. 
“Reckon I’ll be down for the ’coon supper right 
after chore time t'o-morrer night.” 
Carl Schurz Shafer. 
A Noose Head. 
Those mighty antlers fill the mantel-wall, 
And guarding years are meted to your store, 
But in your dreams I know the roaring fall 
And battle’s clash still echo as of yore. 
Your soul’s abroad in Shadowland to-night, 
’Mid ghostly runways and by phantom lakes; 
The challenge call rings out o’er slough and height, 
Reverberating till the forest shakes. 
The dining hall may claim the trophy gained, 
And firelight may play on glassy eyes, 
But wildwood spirits cannot be enchained; 
The soul is roaming where its birthland lies. 
S. A. White. 
