e idea didn't occur to me before."

"Besides," added he, "thar's another reezun. If Hick Holt's what he
used to be, he ain't likely to be very _nice_ about this time o' night.
I hain't seen much o' him lately; but, I reckon, he's as fond o' drink
as ever he war; an' 'tain't often he goes to _his_ bed 'ithout a
skinful. Thar's ten chances agin one, o' your findin' him wi' brick in
his hat."

"That would be awkward."

"Don't think o' goin' to-night," continued the young hunter in a
persuasive tone. "Come along wi' me; an' you can ride down to Holt's in
the mornin'. You'll then find him more reezonable to deal wi'. I can't
offer you no great show o' entertainment; but thar's a piece o'
deer-meat in the house, an' I reckon I can raise a cup o' coffee, an' a
pone or two o' bread. As for your shore, the ole corn-crib ain't quite
empty yet."

"Thanks thanks!" said I, grasping the hunter's hand in the warmth of my
gratitude. "I accept your invitation."

"This way, then, stranger!"

We struck into a path that led to the right; and, after riding about two
miles further, arrived at the solitary home of the hunter--a log-cabin
surrounded by a clearing. I soon found he was its sole occupant--as he
was its owner--some half-dozen large dogs being the only living
creatures that were present to bid us welcome. A rude horse-shed was at
hand--a "loose box," it might be termed, as it was only intended to
accommodate one--and this was placed at the disposal of my Arab. The
"critter" of my host had, for that night, to take to the woods, and
choose his stall among the trees--but to that sort of treatment he had
been well inured. A close-chinked cabin for a lodging; a bear-skin for
a bed; cold venison, corn-bread, and coffee for supper; with a pipe to
follow: all these, garnished with the cheer of a hearty welcome,
constitute an entertainment not to be despised by an old campaigner; and
such was the treatment I met with, under the hospitable _clapboard_ roof
of the young backwoodsman--Frank Wingrove.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

THE INDIAN SUMMER.

Look forth on the forest ere autumn wind scatters
Its frondage of scarlet, and purple, and gold:
That forest, through which the great "Father of Waters"
For thousands of years his broad current has rolled!
Gaze over that forest of opaline hue,
With a heaven above it of glorious blue,
And say is there scene, in this beautiful world,
Where Nature more gaily