derived from his talk? In the choice stories of “bar” and “Injuns,” innocent in themselves, he must needs risk the moral contagion of this leprosy of the soul. Nevertheless he was intent now on escaping from his mother and Joel Ruggles, since it was growing late and he knew the cronies would soon be gathered around the big copper at the still-house, and he welcomed the diversion of a change of the subject. It had fallen upon the weather--the most propitious times of plowing and planting; an earnest confirmation of the popular theory that to bring a crop potatoes and other tubers must be planted in the dark of the moon, and leguminous vegetables, peas, beans, etc., in the light of the moon. Warned by the lengthening shadows, Joel Ruggles broke from the pacific discussion of these agricultural themes, rose slowly from his chair, went within to light his pipe at the fire, and with this companion wended his way down the precipitous slope, then along the rocky banks of the stream to his own little home, half a mile or so up its rushing current. As he went he heard Mark’s clear voice lifted in song further down the stream. He had hardly noted when the young fellow had withdrawn from the conversation. It was a mounted shadow that he saw far away among the leafy shadows of the oaks and the approaching dusk. Mark had slipped off and saddled his half-broken horse, Cockleburr, and was doubtless on his way to his boon companions at the distillery. The old man stood still, leaning on his stick, as he silently listened to the song, the sound carrying far on the placid medium of the water and in the stillness of the evening. “O, call the dogs--Yo he!--Yo ho! Boone and Ranger, Wolf an’ Beau, Little Bob-tail an’ Big Dew-claw, Old Bloody-Mouth an’ Hanging Jaw. Ye hear the hawns?--Yo he!--Yo ho! They all are blowin’, so far they go, With might an’ main, for the trail is fresh, A big bear’s track in the aidge o’ the bresh!” “Yo he! yo ho!” said the river faintly. “Yo he! yo ho!” said the rocks more faintly; and fainter still from the vague darkness came an echo so slight that it seemed as near akin to silence as to sound, barely impinging upon the air. “Yo he! yo ho!” it murmured. But old Joel Ruggles, standing and listening, silently shook his head and said nothing. “Yo he! yo ho!” sung Mark, further away, and the echoes of his boyish voice still rang vibrant and clear. Then there was no sound but the stir of the river and the clang of the iron-shod hoofs of Cockleburr, striking the stones in the rocky bridle-path. The flint gave out a flash of light, the yellow spark glimmering for an instant, visible in the purple dusk with a transitory flicker like a firefly. And old Joel Ruggles once more shook his head. CHAPTER II