"Of a certainty, yes! We love the good appearance. We want the laughter and the social life. Arrayed, I promenade the street for pleasure. A wild red heathen with a hatchet comes from behind and scalps me of my holiday wig, my best one!" "No!" cried Doby. "No!" "Yes! Yes!" bobbing his head a dozen times, the Frenchman insisted. "Yes! Yes!" He added: "The land is full of game. To pursue it is to live well. But see! for a quarter of a century I run from bear, from deer, from charging buffalo. Never do I pursue. Ever I am the pursued one. Of meat I taste little; of game nothing." He shook his head. "Now--have the young men of our kind learned the pioneering. We old mastered it not." Doby was shocked. Such robbery and disappointment worried him. He looked to his father to say something cheery to the plucky little man. Mr. Holman, big and brawny, equal to any demand of frontier life, gazed kindly at Ol' Pap Soisson, who had found its trials almost too much for him. "We will give you a taste of game to-day. Go, Doby, and shoot that gobbler we have been hearing." "But, pa," protested Doby, "wild turkey isn't good in the spring. Nobody eats it." "It _will_ be good if your ma cooks it. I know some one who can eat it," and he smiled at the Frenchman. Ol' Pap Soisson flashed thirty-two white teeth in assent. Stone-bruised heels were forgotten. Rags were torn from Doby's toes. They did not hurt--much. He slipped on his moccasins, not because his bare feet minded the March rime of frost, but just because all hunters did wear moccasins. He carried bow and arrows. Pioneer boys were clever with these, for they were easy to pack about. Early guns were heavy. "Wild turkeys are hard to shoot," he remembered as he trotted along the edge of the wood. "If I can't get that gobbler, I'll bring home something to cook in the new oven. Ol' Pap Soisson deserves a square meal." His father had pointed out the probable turkey-run. Doby had expected to discover tracks at once, but he had to keep on and on, still in sight of the cabin, until, when at last he did find fresh traces, he must have been all of four miles away. But what are four miles to a hunter? Mere detail! He hid himself in the heart of a sycamore and waited for game to pass. Sitting astride a limb in a rough old tree is much easier than lugging stone for an oven, especially if it is one of those big outdoor affairs fastened to the chimney. His father would build a vent to make the draught strong. Then a fire would have to burn for hours in the oven until the stones were scorching. The coals would then be raked out and the turkey--_if Doby got it_--would be shut in the hot empty oven to let the reflected, heat roast it.