The indolent fluting of the hermit thrushes rang languidly through the leafy chambers of the forest, and the wood pewees sang their pensive song on the bordering boughs, too content with song and mere existence to chase the moth that wavered nearest their perch. The languor of their notes pervaded all the senses of the boy, and, with his body in the shade of the log fence and his bare feet in the sunshine, he fell into a doze. Suddenly he was awakened by an alarmed outcry of the crow, now sweeping in narrow circles above some new intruder upon his domain. Then he became aware of strange voices, the tramp of feet, the swish of branches pushed aside regaining their places, a metallic clink, and occasional lightly delivered axe strokes. Mounting the topmost log of the fence, and shading his eyes with his hands, he peered into the twilight of the woods. To this his eyes had hardly accustomed themselves, when he saw what sent flashes of anger and chills of dread chasing one another through his veins. But a few rods away, and coming towards him, were two men, one bearing the end of a surveyor’s chain and a bundle of wire rods, the other carrying an axe and gun. A little behind these were two men similarly equipped, and still further in the rear, half hidden by the screen of undergrowth, more figures were discovered, one of whom was squinting through the sights of a compass, whose polished brass glittered in a stray sunbeam. Nathan was sure this must be the party of the New York surveyor of whom there had been a rumor in the settlement, and he felt that trouble was at hand. “Hello, here’s a clearin’,” the foremost man, as he ran to the fence, called back to the one at the other end of the chain. “Jenkins, tell Mr. Felton there’s a fenced clearin’ here,—and boy,” now deigning to notice so insignificant an object. “Stake,” cried Jenkins. As the first speaker planted one of the wire rods beside the fence, Jenkins pulled up the last one stuck in the woods, at the same time shouting the news back to the surveyor. “Hold on, boy,” the first speaker said, as Nathan jumped from the fence. “You stay here till Mr. Felton comes up.” “I’m going home,” Nathan answered boldly; “if Mr. Felton wants me he can come there.” “You sassy young rascal,” cried one of the men, who carried a gun, bringing his weapon to a ready; “you stand where you be or I’ll—” and he tapped the butt of his gun impressively. “You wouldn’t dast to,” Nathan gasped defiantly, but he went no further, and stood at bay, grinding the soft mold under his naked heel while he cast furtive glances at the intruders, till the remainder of the party came up. The surveyor, impressed with the dignity of his position, maintained a haughty bearing toward all the members of his party save one, a swarthy, thick-set, low-browed man, whom he addressed as Mr. Graves.