NOTHING in the memory of the early settler remains more vivid than the chase. Fresh in our memory is our boyhood days, when “hunting day” would come, generally on Saturday unless that was “muster day”. You may think that we hunted most of the time, but that is a mistake. We could not take the time, but one day in the week was regular “hunting day”. All was stir and bustle very early in the morning, the Father and the two big boys would see that their guns were well loaded and in good fix and bullets in each pouch, and as soon as it was light enough the long ox-horn was taken down and taken outside the door, and then the excitement grew more intense, for as soon as the long blast “t-o-o-o-o-t” was given every hound would stand on his hind feet and see which could holler the loudest, and big, little, old and young would come to the door to take part in the jubilee, even the baby would slap his little hands and holler, for he knew there was something up. Then away to the woods and little glades they would go. Then we would stand out and listen with almost breathless silence, but we didn’t have to listen very long, for directly, hark! the long-drawn-out “b-o-o” was heard. “Oh, they have struck a cold trail, that is ‘old Pomp’” “Maybe a coon.” But directly he would begin to warm up on his subject, and “Muse” and “Joler” would fall in, and directly, all at once, all would turn loose, pups and all. “Oh! its a deer, they have jumped it up.” Then they would fairly make the woods ring for awhile; and when we would hear the crack of the faithful rifle we knew that meant fresh venison, for we knew that to miss a shot was not their style. [Illustration] Peter Huffman.