for acres by the wild herds, where the salt
water oozes out of the hoofprints. On the edge of one of these licks we
paused and stared breathless at giant bones sticking here and there in
the black mud, and great skulls of fearful beasts half-embedded. This
was called the Big Bone Lick, and some travellers that went before us had
made their tents with the thighs of these monsters of a past age.

A danger past is oft a danger forgotten. Men went out to build the homes
of which they had dreamed through the long winter. Axes rang amidst the
white dogwoods and the crabs and redbuds, and there were riotous
log-raisings in the clearings. But I think the building of Tom's house
was the most joyous occasion of all, and for none in the settlement would
men work more willingly than for him and Polly Ann. The cabin went up as
if by magic. It stood on a rise upon the bank of the river in a grove of
oaks and hickories, with a big persimmon tree in front of the door. It
was in the shade of this tree that Polly Ann sat watching Tom and me
through the mild spring days as we barked the roof, and none ever felt
greater joy and pride in a home than she. We had our first supper on a
wide puncheon under the persimmon tree on the few pewter plates we had
fetched across the mountain, the blue smoke from our own hearth rising in
the valley until the cold night air spread it out in a line above us,
while the horses grazed at the river's edge.

After that we went to ploughing, an occupation which Tom fancied but
little, for he loved the life of a hunter best of all. But there was
corn to be raised and fodder for the horses, and a truck-patch to be
cleared near the house.

One day a great event happened,--and after the manner of many great
events, it began in mystery. Leaping on the roan mare, I was riding like
mad for Harrodstown to fetch Mrs. Cowan. And she, when she heard the
summons, abandoned a turkey on the spit, pitched her brats out of the
door, seized the mare, and dashing through the gates at a gallop left me
to make my way back afoot. Scenting a sensation, I hurried along the
wooded trace at a dog trot, and when I came in sight of the cabin there
was Mrs. Cowan sitting on the step, holding in her long but motherly arms
something bundled up in nettle linen, while Tom stood sheepishly by,
staring at it.

"Shucks," Mrs. Cowan was saying loudly, "I reckon ye're as little use
to-day as Swein Poulsson,--standin' there on one foot. Ye anger