He led the way up the narrow trail until he stopped where he had knelt before. It was a narrow, sunny ledge of rock, scarcely wide enough for a single person to pass. He silently pointed to a cleft in the rock, and kneeling down again, began to whistle in a soft, fluttering way. There was a moment of suspense, and then she was conscious of an awful gliding something,--a movement so measured yet so exquisitely graceful that she stood enthralled. A narrow, flattened, expressionless head was followed by a footlong strip of yellow-barred scales; then there was a pause, and the head turned, in a beautifully symmetrical half-circle, towards the whistler. The whistling ceased; the snake, with half its body out of the cleft, remained poised in air as if stiffened to stone. “There,” said Leonidas quietly, “that's what Mr. Burroughs saw, and that's WHY he scooted off the trail. I just called out William Henry,--I call him William Henry, and he knows his name,--and then I sang out to Mr. Burroughs what was up; and it was lucky I did, for the next moment he'd have been on top of him and have been struck, for rattlers don't give way to any one.” “Oh, why didn't you let”--She stopped herself quickly, but could not stop the fierce glint in her eye nor the sharp curve in her nostril. Luckily, Leonidas did not see this, being preoccupied with his other graceful charmer, William Henry. “But how did you know it was here?” said Mrs. Burroughs, recovering herself. “Fetched him here,” said Leonidas briefly. “What in your hands?” she said, drawing back. “No! made him follow! I HAVE handled him, but it was after I'd first made him strike his pizen out upon a stick. Ye know, after he strikes four times he ain't got any pizen left. Then ye kin do anythin' with him, and he knows it. He knows me, you bet! I've bin three months trainin' him. Look! Don't be frightened,” he said, as Mrs. Burroughs drew hurriedly back; “see him mind me. Now scoot home, William Henry.” He accompanied the command with a slow, dominant movement of the hickory rod he was carrying. The snake dropped its head, and slid noiselessly out of the cleft across the trail and down the hill. “Thinks my rod is witch-hazel, which rattlers can't abide,” continued Leonidas, dropping into a boy's breathless abbreviated speech. “Lives down your way--just back of your farm. Show ye some day. Suns himself on a flat stone every day--always cold--never can get warm. Eh?” She had not spoken, but was gazing into space with a breathless rigidity of attitude and a fixed look in her eye, not unlike the motionless orbs of the reptile that had glided away. “Does anybody else know you keep him?” she asked. “Nary one. I never showed him to anybody but you,” replied the boy. “Don't! You must show me where he hides to-morrow,” she said, in her old laughing way. “And now, Leon, I must go back to the house.” “May I write to him--to Jim Belcher, Mrs. Burroughs?” said the boy timidly.