Abe's sigh was eloquent of a disbelief that such a consummation was possible, short of the blissful hereafter. Inside of one of the cabins they found a still about the size of a tub, with a worm of similar small proportions, kept cook by the flow from the spring. Some tubs and barrels, in which the lees of cider were rapidly turning to vinegar, gave off a fuity, spirituous odor, but for awhile their eager search did not discover a bit of the distilled product. At last, Kent, with a cry of triumph, dragged from a place of cunning concealment a small jug, stopped with a corncob. He smelled it hungrily. “Yes, here is some. It's apple-jack, not a week old, and as rank as a Major General. Phew! I can smell every stick they burned to distil it. Abe, watch me closely while I drink. I magnanimously take the lead, out of consideration for you. If I ain't dead in five minutes, you try it.” “O, stop monkeying, and drink,” was the impatient answer. Kent put the jug to his mouth and took a long draught. “Shade of old Father Noah, the first drunkard,” he said as he wiped the tears from his eyes, “another swig like that would pull out all the rivets in my internal pipings. Heavens! it went down like pulling a cat out of a hole by the tail. I'm afraid to wipe my mouth, lest my breath burn a hole in the sleeve of my blouse.” Three-quarters of an hour later, the spirits in the jug were lowering and those in the men rising with unequal rapidity. Under the influence of the fiery stimulant, Kent's sanguine temperament boiled and bubbled over. Imagination painted the present and future in hues of dazzling radiance. Everything was as delightful as it could be now, and would become more charming as time rolled on. But with Abe Bolton drinking tended to develop moroseness into savagery. “Ah, comfort me with apple-jack, and stay me with flagons of it,” said Kent Edwards, setting down the jug with the circumspection of a man not yet too drunk to suspect that he is losing exact control of his legs and arms. “That gets better the deeper down you go. First it was like swallowing a chestnut burr; now, old hand-made Bourbon couldn't be smoother.” “A man can get used to a'most anything,” said Bolton. “I get gladder every day, Abe, that I came into the army. I wouldn't have missed all this experience for the finest farm in the Miami Valley. ''Twere worth ten years of peaceful life, To soldier have a day,' Sir Walter Scott says--as I improve him.” “'Specially one of them soaking days when we were marching through the mud to Wildcat.” “O, those were just thrown in to make us appreciate good weather when we have it. Otherwise we wouldn't. You know what the song says: 'For Spring would be but gloomy weather, If we had nothing else but Spring.'”