“Whoa, hush! Whoa haw, there! What are you afeard of now? That’s nothin’ but a jay squallin’.” The strong voice of the driver rang through the stillness of the woods, overbearing the monotonous tread of the oxen, the creak of the sled, and the responsive swish and creak of the snow beneath feet and runners. Unmindful of his voice, the oxen still swerved from the unbeaten track of the forest road and threatened to bring the off runner against one of the great trees that bordered it. The driver sprang from his standing place, and, running forward alongside the cattle, quickly brought them to a halt with a few reassuring words, and a touch of his long, blue-beech gad across their faces. Looking into the woods to see what had alarmed them, he became aware of the man standing a little way off, as motionless as the great tree trunks around him. Seeing the oxen were now under control, the latter advanced a little and spoke in a low, pleasant voice: “I didn’t go to skeer your oxen, stranger, and was standin’ still to let ’em pass, but thet jay squalled at me, an’, lookin’ this way, I s’pose they ketched a glimpse of my fur cap an’ took it for some varmint. Cattle is always lookin’ for some sech, in the woods. Your load’s all right, I hope,” he said, coming into the road and looking at the sled, which, though tipped on some hidden obstruction, was yet in no danger of upsetting its freight. “Why, you’ve got women an’ childern,” and his face lighted up with an expression of pleased interest. “You’re comin’ in to make a pitch. How far might you be goin’, stranger?” “A little beyond Fort Ti, on this side,” the driver of the oxen answered. “I made a pitch there last year. My name’s Seth Beeman, and I come from Salisbury, Connecticut, and them on the sled are my wife and children.” Seth Beeman knew that, according to the custom of the country and the times, this information would presently be required of him, and the hunter, for such the stranger’s dress, long gun and snowshoes proclaimed him to be, had such an honest face he did not hesitate to forestall the inevitable questions. “I want to know! A Beeman from ol’ Salisbury,” cried the other. “An’ now I wonder if you be akin to my ol’ comrade in the Rangers, ’Zekiel Beeman?” “My father’s name was Ezekiel, and he served in Roger’s Rangers.” “Give me your hand, friend,” cried the hunter, drawing off his mitten with his teeth, and extending his hand as he came near to the other. “Well, I never thought to meet an ol’ friend here in these lonesome woods, to-day. Yes, an ol’ friend, for that’s what a son of ’Zekiel Beeman’s is to me, though I never sot eyes on him afore. You’ve maybe hearn him speak of Job Carpenter? That’s my name.” “Carpenter? Yes, the name sounds familiar, but you know father wa’n’t a man of many words and never told us much of his sojerin’ days.”