when I war down hyar afore,
a-figurin' ter ketch that thar leetle ow_el_," he said to himself when
he had reached the tree and sat in a crotch, panting and excited.

After a moment, regardless of the coveted owl, he swung down from branch
to branch, dropped easily from the lowest upon the ground, picked up his
hat, and prepared to skulk along the "short cut," strike the road, and
come home by that route as if he had just returned from the settlement.

"'Kase," he argued sagely, "ef them skeered-ter-death grown folks war
ter find out ez _I_ war the _harnt_--I mean ez the _harnt_ war
_me_--ennyhow," he concluded desperately, "I'd KETCH it--sure!"

So impressed was he with this idea that he discreetly held his tongue.

And from that day to this, Jonas Creyshaw and his friends have been
unable to solve the mystery of Old Daddy's Window.

'WAY DOWN IN POOR VALLEY

CHAPTER I

There was the grim Big Injun Mountain to the right, with its bare,
beetling sandstone crags. There was the long line of cherty hills to the
left, covered by a dark growth of stunted pines. Between lay that
melancholy stretch of sterility known as Poor Valley,--the poorest of
the several valleys in Tennessee thus piteously denominated, because of
the sorry contrast which they present to the rich coves and fertile
vales so usual among the mountains of the State.

How poor the soil was, Ike Hooden might bitterly testify; for ever since
he could hold a plough he had, year after year, followed the old
"bull-tongue" through the furrows of the sandy fields which lay around
the log cabin at the base of the mountain. In the intervals of
"crappin'" he worked at the forge with his stepfather, for close at
hand, in the shadow of a great jutting cliff, lurked a dark little
shanty of unhewn logs that was a blacksmith's shop.

When he first began this labor, he was, perhaps, the youngest striker
that ever wielded a sledge. Now, at eighteen, he had become expert at
the trade, and his muscles were admirably developed. He was tall and
robust, and he had never an ache nor an ill, except in his aching heart.
But his heart was sore, for in the shop he found oaths and harsh
treatment, and even at home these pursued him; while outside, desolation
was set like a seal on Poor Valley.

One drear autumnal afternoon, when the sky was dull, a dense white mist
overspread the valley. As Ike plodded up the steep mountain side, the
vapor followed him, creeping silentl