nd a
mighty longing to use it. Arv Law rested an end of his pike-pole
and stood looking anxiously for "red devils" among the stumps of
the farther clearing. An old flint-lock, on the shoulder of a man
beside him, had a barrel half as long as the pole. David Church
was equipped with axe and gun, that stood at rest on either side of
him.

Evening came, and no sign of Indians. While it was growing dusk I
borrowed a pail of the innkeeper and milked the cow, and brought
the pail, heaped with froth, to my mother, who passed brimming cups
of milk among the children. As night fell, we boys, more daring
than our fathers, crept to the edge of the timber and set the big
brush-heaps afire, and scurried back with the fear of redmen at our
heels. The men were now sitting in easy attitudes and had begun to
talk.

"Don't b'lieve there's no Injuns comin'," said Bill Foster. "Ef
they wus they 'd come."

"'Cordin' t' my observation," said Arv Law, looking up at the sky,
"Injuns mos' gen'ally comes when they git ready."

"An' 't ain't when yer ready t' hev 'em, nuther," said Lon
Butterfield.

"B'lieve they come up 'n' peeked out o' the bushes 'n' see Arv with
thet air pike-pole, 'n' med up their minds they hed n't better run
up ag'in' it," said Bill Foster. "Scairt 'em--thet's whut's th'
matter."

"Man 'et meks light o' this pole oughter hev t' carry it," said
Arv, as he sat impassively resting it upon his knee.

"One things sure," said Foster; "ef Arv sh'u'd cuff an Injun with
thet air he 'll squ'sh 'im."

"Squ'sh 'im!" said Arv, with a look of disgust. "'T ain't med t'
squ'sh with, I cal'late t' p'int it at 'em 'n' jab."

And so, as the evening wore away and sleep hushed the timid, a
better feeling came over us. I sat by Rose Merriman on the steps,
and we had no thought of Indians. I was looking into her big hazel
eyes, shining in the firelight, and thinking how beautiful she was.
And she, too, was looking into my eyes, while we whispered
together, and the sly minx read my thoughts, I know, by the look of
her.

Great flames were now leaping high as the timber-tops at the edge
of the clearing. A dead spruce caught fire as we were looking.
The flames threw over it a lacy, shimmering, crackling net of gold.
Then suddenly it burst into a red, leaping tower. A few moments,
and the cavern of the woods, along the timber side, was choked with
fire. The little hamlet had become a spring of light in the
darkness. We