“I kyant ondastan why dey don’ hunt dat branch mo’. Ef’n I had uh nubba dog (Jasper is foot-sore, an’ I gwine ter git one), I’d pestah dat lubly branch when ebnin’ cum, an’ ornless hit snow er rain, I’d hunt ev’y parf in it.” [Illustration: Jes’ gib huh an-nubba dip, Pawson Demby, huh sins is cummin’ up fum huh in clusters! ] Then and there the witch committee arranged for a hunt the next night. They asked Billy to go, but “he wuz gwine ter Kyarline County futto buy uh dog.” The moon was new and went down about 11 o’clock, and Billy calculated they would be along about that hour. So, holding the grapevine in his hand, he climbed a _witch-elm_ tree, threw the vine over its slippery limb, rested his pumpkin-face on the ground, and whilst he was “meddowtatin’” he heard the voice of Scipio say to his thoroughbred hound: “Put ’im up, Noahy!” and later, “I like de stile an’ rovin’ ub dat dog, don’ you, Uncle Stephen?” Uncle Stephen said, “Monstus fine! Carry hissef jes’ like uh houn’ I hunted over lars’ wintah in Kyarline County dat wuz stole fum de man dat los’ him; an’ I heah him say he hope dat dog tree nuffin fuh de pusson dat stole him ’ceppin’ ghos’es, witches an’ sperrits, an’ ef’n he ebba ketch him, dis uth wud trimble when he twiss he neck.” Scip’s eyes began to feel too big—his roguery rebuked him; Noahy was the stolen dog. But his conscience was momentarily relieved by Noahy’s giving tongue, and was tickled and delighted when Uncle Stephen said: “Dat’s uh coon, an’ dat’s uh qualified coon dog; uh sweetah tongue I ain’ heahd sence Mars’ Nickey’s Jerry-Myah died, name arfter a profit; an’ he wuz a profit, too.” By this time they were all in a brisk trot, Uncle Stephen grumbling about the pace and declaring he could not keep up. The witch committee were about one hundred and fifty yards from Billy, and when he saw the dog some thirty yards off, and hunting towards him, he quickly lit the tallow candle and slowly pulled the pumpkin face a few feet from the ground. Noahy saw it in a moment, retreated and yelped like a wild dog. All was consternation, and all hearts went pitapat. Presently Uncle Stephen, who had the most courage, said: “’Pears ter me dat dog cum ’long wid som’ varment he ain’ ’quainted wid. I had a composation yistiddy week wid uh coon hunter I’s knowed fuh uh long time, an’ he say dogs dat ain’ ris on de watah al’ays gits skeered de fus’ time dey see pompusses an’ shirks playin’ on de ribber sho’.” Scipio caressed the dog with trembling hands, and said: “I don’ ondastan’ de ’spression ub dis dog. Otters is ornpropper varments ter projic’ wid; maybe he s’prised a sleepin’ otter, an’ de otter smack him, an’ den babtiz him in de creek tell he mos’ drown. Dey will do it! ’Specially on de new moon.”