ly with pine, that form the long glacis of
the Alleghanies. These hills are peopled principally by a hardy race
not unlike the German woodsmen, whose blood, indeed, a great many of
them share, as their surnames, though sadly thinned down into English
spelling and pronunciation, denote. They inherit, likewise, their
fancy for the rifle. Allied with the axe, which, like Talleyrand's
supposititious frontiersman, they have not forgotten, it supplies them
materially with sport and subsistence. Their land, where arable
at all, being unproductive as a rule, wood-chopping is their most
profitable branch of farming. A score or two of them drive into town
daily, each with his four-, three- or two-horse cargo of wood. The
pile is frequently topped off with a brace or two of ruffed grouse,
there called pheasant, or a wild-turkey, less often a deer, and
more often hares; which last multiply along the narrow intervales in
extraordinary numbers. We have seen three sledge-loads of hares--say
two thousand in all--on the street of a winter's day.

This sappy and sapid contribution to its comfort and luxury the town
often repays with a jug of whisky as an addendum to the cash receipts;
although it must not be inferred from this that the hillmen are noted
for a weakness in that direction. Generally, they are as sober as they
are hard-working, independent and honest. The few who do take kindly
to strong waters are so hardened by a life of toil and exposure
that the enemy is a lifetime in bringing them down.. One little old
hook-nosed fellow was an every-day feature of the road for fifteen or
twenty years. In that entire period he was rarely, if once, seen to go
out sober. He drove but two horses, which were apparently coeval with
himself. Long practice had taught them perfectly how to accommodate
themselves to their master's failing. The saddle-horse adapted his
movements with vigilant dexterity to the rolling and pitching aloft.
On more than one occasion the woodman was found lying in the road by
the side or under the feet of his faithful and motionless team. Poor
old Jack! thou hast "gone under," deeper than that, at last, leaving
behind thee the savor of an honest name, slightly modified by that of
corn whisky.

The Hayfield Inn, a little hostelrie on the Northern "pike," is the
scene of many a turkey-shoot. Between the hill and the road, at the
foot of a ravine that runs down at right angles, room enough has
been scooped out, partly b