DRi and I | Page 3

faintly in the tree-tops, he gave it a
lusty cheer, napping his wings with all the seeming of delight. Then,
often, while the echo rang, I would open my eyes and watch the light

grow in .the dusky cavern of the woods. He would sit dozing awhile
after the first outbreak, and presently as the flood of light grew clearer,
lift himself a little, take another peep at the sky, and crow again,
turning his head to hear those weird, mocking roosters of the
timber-land. Then, shortly, I would hear my father poking the fire or
saying, as he patted the rooster: "Sass 'em back, ye noisy little brat!
Thet 's right: holler. Tell D'ri it's time t' bring some wood fer the fire."
In a few minutes the pot and kettle would be boiling and the camp all
astir. We had trout and partridge and venison a-plenty for our meals,
that were served in dishes of tin. Breakfast over, we packed our things.
The cart went on ahead, my father bringing the oxen, while I started the
sheep with D'ri.
Those sheep were as many thorns in our flesh that day we made off in
the deep woods from Lake Champlain. Travel was new to them, and
what with tearing through thickets and running wild in every slash, they
kept us jumping. When they were leg-weary and used to travel, they
began to go quietly. But slow work it was at best, ten or twelve miles a
day being all we could do, for the weather was hot and our road like the
way of the transgressor. Our second night in the woods we could hear
the wolves howling as we camped at dusk. We built our fire near the
shore of a big pond, its still water, framed in the vivid green of young
tamaracks. A great hill rose on the farther side of it, with galleries of
timber sloping to the summit, and peopled with many birds. We
huddled the sheep together in a place where the trees were thick, while
father brought from the cart a coil of small rope. We wound it about the
trees, so the sheep were shut in a little yard. After supper we all sat by
the fire, while D'ri told how he had been chased by wolves in the
beaver country north of us.
D'ri was an odd character. He had his own way of expressing the three
degrees of wonder, admiration, and surprise. "Jerushy!"--accented on
the second syllable--was the positive, "Jerushy Jane!" the comparative,
and "Jerushy Jane Pepper!" the superlative. Who that poor lady might
be I often wondered, but never ventured to inquire. In times of stress I
have heard him swear by "Judas Priest," but never more profanely. In

his youth he had been a sailor on the lake, when some artist of the
needle had tattooed a British jack on the back of his left hand--a thing
he covered, of shame now, when he thought of it. His right hand had
lost its forefinger in a sawmill. His rifle was distinguished by the name
of Beeswax,--"Ol' Beeswax" he called it sometimes,--for no better
reason than that it was "easy spoke an' hed a kind uv a powerful soun'
tew it." He had a nose like a shoemaker's thumb: there was a deep
incurve from its wide tip to his forehead. He had a large, gray,
inquiring eye and the watchful habit of the woodsman. Somewhere in
the midst of a story he would pause and peer thoughtfully into the
distance, meanwhile feeling the pipe-stem with his lips, and then
resume the narrative as suddenly as he had stopped. He was a lank and
powerful man, six feet tall in his stockings. He wore a thin beard that
had the appearance of parched grass on his ruddy countenance. In the
matter of hair, nature had treated him with a generosity most unusual.
His heavy shock was sheared off square above his neck.
That evening, as he lay on his elbow in the firelight, D'ri had just
entered the eventful field of reminiscence. The women were washing
the dishes; my father had gone to the spring for water. D'ri pulled up
suddenly, lifted his hat of faded felt, and listened, peering into the dusk.
"Seems t' me them wolves is comin' nearer," he said thoughtfully.
Their cries were echoing in the far timber. We all rose and listened. In a
moment my father came hurrying back with his pail of water.
"D'ri," said he, quietly, as he threw some wood on the fire, "they smell
mutton. Mek the guns ready. We may git a few pelts. There's a big
bounty on 'em here 'n York State."
We all stood about the fire listening as the wolves came nearer.
"It 's