On the Trail of Pontiac | Page 5

warm up?"
"I'm not cold."
"Nor am I," put in Dave.
Paul Thompson had been followed to the doorway by his wife Sarah,
and the pair asked the two young hunters how matters were faring at
home.
"We feel lonely here," said Mrs. Thompson. "In Philadelphia we had so
much company."
"You must come over to our house more," answered Henry. "Mother, I
know, will be glad to see you."
The Thompsons had come to that neighborhood the summer before,
taking up a claim of land left by a near relative who had died. Both
were young, and the husband had thought to improve his condition by
turning farmer rather than by remaining a clerk in one of the
Philadelphia shops. But the loneliness of the life was something neither
had counted on, and both were glad enough to talk to a neighbor at
every available opportunity.
"I am coming over in a week or two, to stay three days, if your folks
will keep me," said Mrs. Thompson. "Paul is going over to Dennett's
Mills on business."
"You'll be welcome," said Henry; and after a little more talk the young
hunters went on their way.
"I'm anxious to see what sort of a farmer Thompson will make," said

Dave as he strode along. "I don't believe he knows a thing about tilling
the soil. He's as green as we should be behind the counter of a shop."
"He'll have to learn, the same as anybody else."
At last the youths came in sight of home. It was now dark, and through
the living-room window they saw the gleam of a tallow candle which
rested on the table.
A shout from Dave brought his father to the doorway. "Back again,
eh?" exclaimed James Morris. "And tired as two dogs after the chase,
I'll warrant."
"We are tired," answered the son. "But I reckon we could walk a few
miles more if we had to."
"I see you didn't get a deer this time," came from Rodney Morris, as he,
too, appeared at the doorway.
"Mercy on us, you can't expect them to get a deer every trip!"
ejaculated Mrs. Morris, who was bustling around the big open
fire-place preparing supper. "It's a wonder they start up anything at all
around here, with all the hunting that's going on."
"We got two wild turkeys and seven rabbits," said Henry. "We left two
rabbits at the Thompsons'. And, by the way, Mrs. Thompson is coming
over in a week or two to stay three days. Paul is going to Dennett's on
business."
"I'll be glad to have her here," was the mother's reply. "Poor dear, I
know just how lonely she feels. Of course you said it would be all
right."
"Yes, I said she'd be welcome."
"I'm so glad!" came from little Nell, as she brushed back the curls that
were flying around her face. "Mrs. Thompson is so nice! She can tell
the cutest stories!"

"A story-teller always makes a friend of Nell!" laughed her father.
"Even White Buffalo can charm her with what he has to say when it
comes to stories."
"White Buffalo is a nice Indian," answered the little miss promptly.
"The next time he comes here he said he would make me a big, big
wooden doll, with joints that would move, and glass beads for eyes."
"You won't fail to keep him busy, if he lets you," came from Dave, as
he kicked the snow from his feet and came into the cabin. He threw his
game on a bench and hung up his bag, musket, outer coat, and his hat.
"Something smells good in here," he declared.
"You've walked yourselves into an appetite," said Rodney. He picked
up the wild turkeys. "Good big fellows, aren't they? You've earned your
supper."
The game was placed in a cold pantry, to be cleaned and dressed on the
morrow, and then the inmates of the cabin gathered around the table to
enjoy what Mrs. Morris had to offer.
It was a scene common in those days. The living-room floor was bare
and so was the long table, but both were scrubbed to a whiteness and
cleanliness that could not be excelled. On either side of the table were
rude, but substantial benches, and at the ends were chairs which had
been in use for several generations. In a corner of the room stood Mrs.
Morris's spinning-wheel and behind this was a shelf containing the
family Bible, half a dozen books, and a pile of newspapers which had
been carefully preserved from time to time, including copies of the
"Pennsylvania Gazette," edited by Benjamin Franklin, and also of the
latter's publications known as "Poor Richard's Almanack," full of
quaint sayings and maxims. Over the shelf were some deer's antlers and