ing avenues of the russet woods with long, fibrous
strokes of red and yellow, as with a brush scant of color. The autumnal
air was dank, with subtle shivers. A precipice was not far distant on
the western side, and there the darksome forest fell away, showing above
the massive, purple mountains a section of sky in a heightened clarity
of tint, a suave, saffron hue, with one horizontal bar of vivid
vermilion that lured the eye. The old mountaineer gazed retrospectively
at it as he resumed:

"Waal, sirs, that town-man had never consorted with sech ez
skellingtons. He lit out straight! He made tracks! He never stopped till
he reached Colbury, an' thar he told his tale. Then the sheriff he tuk
a hand in the game. Skellingtons, he said, didn't grow on trees
spontaneous, an' he hed an official interes' in human relics out o'
place. So he kem,--the tree is 'twixt hyar an' my house thar on the
rise,--an', folks! the tale war plain. Some man chased off 'n the face
of the yearth, hid out from the law,--that's the way Meddy takes it,--he
hed clomb the tree, an' it bein' holler, he drapped down inside it,
thinkin' o' course he could git out the way he went in. But, no! It
monght hev been deeper 'n he calculated, or mo' narrow, but he couldn't
make the rise. He died still strugglin', fer his long, bony fingers war
gripped in the wood--it's rotted a deal sence then."

"Who was the man?" asked Seymour.

"Nobody knows,--nobody keers 'cept' Meddy. She hev wep' a bushel o'
tears about him. The cor'ner 'lowed from the old-fashioned flint-lock
rifle he hed with him that it mus' hev happened nigh a hunderd years
ago. Meddy she will git ter studyin' on that of a winter night, an' how
the woman that keered fer him mus' hev watched an' waited fer him, an'
'lowed he war deceitful an' de-sertin', an' mebbe held a gredge agin
him, whilst he war dyin' so pitiful an' helpless, walled up in that
tree. Then Meddy will tune up agin, an' mighty nigh cry her eyes out.
He warn't even graced with a death-bed ter breathe his last; Meddy air
partic'lar afflicted that he hed ter die afoot." Old Kettison glanced
about the circle, consciously facetious, his heavily grooved face
distended in a mocking grin.

"A horrible fate!" exclaimed Seymour, with a half-shudder.

"Edzac'ly," the old mountaineer assented easily.

"What's her name--Meggy?" asked the journalist, with a mechanical
aptitude for detail, no definite curiosity.

"Naw; Meddy--short fer Meddl