We struck into a path that led to the right; and, after riding about two miles further, arrived at the solitary home of the hunter--a log-cabin surrounded by a clearing. I soon found he was its sole occupant--as he was its owner--some half-dozen large dogs being the only living creatures that were present to bid us welcome. A rude horse-shed was at hand--a "loose box," it might be termed, as it was only intended to accommodate one--and this was placed at the disposal of my Arab. The "critter" of my host had, for that night, to take to the woods, and choose his stall among the trees--but to that sort of treatment he had been well inured. A close-chinked cabin for a lodging; a bear-skin for a bed; cold venison, corn-bread, and coffee for supper; with a pipe to follow: all these, garnished with the cheer of a hearty welcome, constitute an entertainment not to be despised by an old campaigner; and such was the treatment I met with, under the hospitable _clapboard_ roof of the young backwoodsman--Frank Wingrove. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. THE INDIAN SUMMER. Look forth on the forest ere autumn wind scatters Its frondage of scarlet, and purple, and gold: That forest, through which the great "Father of Waters" For thousands of years his broad current has rolled! Gaze over that forest of opaline hue, With a heaven above it of glorious blue, And say is there scene, in this beautiful world, Where Nature more gaily her flag has unfurled? Or think'st thou, that e'en in the regions of bliss, There's a landscape more truly Elysian than this? Behold the dark sumac in crimson arrayed, Whose veins with the deadliest poison are rife! And, side by her side, on the edge of the glade, The sassafras laurel, restorer of life! Behold the tall maples turned red in their hue, And the muscadine vine, with its clusters of blue; And the lotus, whose leaves have scarce time to unfold, Ere they drop, to discover its berries of gold; And the bay-tree, perfumed, never changing its sheen, And for ever enrobed in its mantle of green! And list to the music borne over the trees! It falls on the ear, giving pleasure ecstatic-- The song of the birds and the hum of the bees Commingling their tones with the ripples erratic. Hark! hear you the red-crested cardinal's call From the groves of annona?--from tulip-tree tall The mock-bird responding?--below, in the glade, The dove softly cooing in mellower shade-- While the oriole answers in accents of mirth? Oh, where is there melody sweeter on earth?