“Waal, ye know,” said Skimpy in a high excited voice, “Bose, ye know, is a plumb special coon-dog. An’ he’s sharp; mighty few gyard-dogs sech ez Bose. An’ he air a shepherd too. I’ll be bound none o’ our sheep air ever missin’ or kilt. An’ Bose sets ez much store by the baby ez enny o’ the fambly do; he jes’ gyards that cradle; he’ll snap at me if I so much ez kem nigh it—nobody but mam kin tech that baby arter Bose takes his stand. An’ Bose, he kin go out an’ find our cow out’n fifty an’ fetch her home.” Binwell had long ago perceived that he had touched the wrong chord. Skimpy was quite content to be rated as secondary in beauty to the all-accomplished and beloved Bose. “I know Bose,” he admitted. “Bose is hard to beat.” “_Yes_, sir! Yes, _sir_!” And Skimpy wagged his convinced head. “But Ike ’lows he be ugly.” “Shucks! I say ugly!” cried Skimpy scornfully; he was willing to be considered no beauty himself—but _Bose_! “An’ he ’lows he’d jes’ ez lief hear Bose howl ez you-uns sing.” Skimpy paused, turning his astonished face up to Binwell, the moonlight full upon its stung and indignant expression. Now Bose had never been considered musical—not even by Skimpy. He drew the line that bounds perfection at Bose’s dulcet utterances. He was almost incredulous at this, despite his confiding nature. “Why, I hev jes’ sot an’ sung fur Ike till I mighty nigh los’ my breath.” “Ye oughter hear him mock ye, arter ye gits gone. Oh, Mister Coon! Oh, e-aw, Mister Kyune!” mimicked Jerry in an insulting falsetto. “He ’lows it gin him the year-ache; ye ’members how bad he had it.” “Dellaw!” exclaimed the outdone and amazed Skimpy, stopping in the road, his breath short, his face scarlet. “Made me right up an’ down mad,” said Jerry. “Oh, I knowed that Ike, minit I set eyes on him! I knowed his deceivin’ natur’. I wanted ter skeer him away from Keedon Bluffs. I never minded you-uns. I’d jes’ ez lief tell you-uns ez not why I wanted ter keep him off’n ’em.” “What fur?” said Skimpy, once more trudging along. “Waal, hyar I be whar my road turns off from yer road,” said Jerry, pausing. He stood at the forks of the road, half in the light of the moon, half in the shadow of the thinning overhanging foliage. The mists were in the channel of the river, and the banks were brimming with the lustrous pearly floods; the blue sky was clear save that the moon was beset by purple broken clouds—all veined about with opalescent gleams. The shadows were black in the woods; the long shafts of light, yellow and slanting, penetrated far down the aisles, which seemed very lonely and silent; an acorn presently fell from the chestnut oak above Binwell’s head into the white sandy road, so unfrequented that the track of a wagon which had passed long before would hardly be soon displaced unless by the wind or the rain.