all speedily, and she then applied to the Judge for fuel from his
library to feed her young furnace.

"He takes to learning as naturally as bees to blossoms," she
reported.

"He must ease off," warned Barnabas. "Young hickory needs plenty of
room for full growth."

"No," disagreed the Judge, "young hickory is as strong as wrought
iron. He's going to have a clear, keen mind to argue law cases."

"I think not," said M'ri. "You forget another quality of young
hickory. No other wood burns with such brilliancy. David is going to
be an author."

"I am afraid," wrote Joe, "that Dave won't be a first-class ranchman.
He must be plum locoed with dreams."

This prognostication reached David's ears.

"Without dreams," he argued to Barnabas, "one would be like the
pigs."

"Wal, now, Dave, mebby pigs dream. They sartain sleep a hull lot."

David laughed appreciatively.

"Dave," pursued Barnabas, "they're all figgerin' on your futur, and
they're a-figgerin' wrong. Joe thinks you'll take to ranchin'. You
may--fer a spell. M'ri thinks you may write books. You may do even
that--fer a spell. The Jedge counts on yer takin' to the law like a
duck does to water. You may, but law larnin', cow punchin', and story
writin' 'll jest be steppin' stuns to what I know you air goin' ter
be, and what I know is in you ter be."

"What in the world is that, Uncle Barnabas?" asked David in surprise.
"A farmer?"

"Farmer, nuthin'!" scoffed Barnabas. "Yer hain't much on farmin',
Dave, though I will say yer furrers is allers straight, like
everythin' else you do. Yer straight yerself. No! young hickory can
bend without breakin', and thar's jest one thing I want fer you to
be."

"What?" persisted the boy.

Barnabas whispered something.

The blood of the young country boy went like wine through his veins;
his heart leaped with a big and mighty purpose.

"Now, remember, Dave," cautioned Barnabas, "what all work and no play
done to Jack. You git yer lessons perfect, and recite them, and read a
leetle of an evenin'; the rest of the time I want yer to get out and
cerkilate."

November with its call to quiet woods came on, and David was eager to
"cerkilate." He became animated with the spirit of sport. Red-letter
Saturdays were spent with Uncle Larimy, and the far-away echo of the
hunter's bullet and the scudding through the woods of startled game
became new, sweet music to his ears. Rifle in hand, with dog shuffling
at his heels or plungin