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The Guerilla Chief, and Other Tales

For the first half-mile or so I saw that I was gaining upon the gobbler – not rapidly; for the mustang, though tough, was far from being a fast one. He promised bottom, however; and I was indulging in high hopes that in time I should overtake the turkey, and carry him back a prize, a triumph in the eyes of my hunting companions.

All at once this agreeable prospect began to appear doubtful. Although I continued to press the mustang, both with spurs and voice, I still perceived that the distance between me and the turkey was gradually growing greater, instead of less!

Surely the horse had not slackened his speed? I had guarded against that. The gobbler, then, must have quickened his.

What was the explanation?

I soon discovered it. I saw that the chase was carrying me up a hill.

A sharp ridge trended across the prairie, transversely to the line of the pursuit. Both pursued and pursuer had parted from the level plain, and were now gliding up the acclivity.

I knew the meaning of this. I remembered a chapter of my ornithology, studied among the pine barrens of Tennessee, where I had observed a turkey-gobbler distance the hounds against the steep slope of a ridge; and do it with perfect ease. I knew that the bird, aided by its extended wings, could run against the hill with almost double the speed of either dog or horse; and that was the reason why my mustang was falling so far into the rear.

I kept on; but only to have my chagrin increased, by seeing the gobbler go much faster than myself.

He reached the crest of the ridge before my little steed, badly blown, had got half up its sloping side!

I was about to give up the chase in despair. The distance separating me from the turkey was at least two hundred yards; and I fancied that the mustang, winded as he was, might be hurt in trying to overtake it. I did not desire to damage my reputation by “riding a free horse to death.”

While thus hesitating, I was astonished by observing an unexpected circumstance. The turkey had reached the summit of the ridge, and was so conspicuously outlined against the blue background of the sky, that I could see it from head to heel. While admiring the outlines of the magnificent bird, I saw its wings all at once cease from their flapping, and drop down by its sides, while, at the same instant, the action of its limbs became suspended, and, as if having spent its last effort of strength, it tumbled over on the turf.

“Good!” thought I, “I’ve run it down, after all! What a fool I was to think of discontinuing the chase! There’s nothing more to do but to ride up and take possession of it.”

Lest the bird might recover breath, and make a new start, I once more drove my spurs into the sides of the mustang, and galloped up to the crest of the ridge.

I need not have been in such hot haste: for on getting near enough to the gobbler to be able to judge of his condition, I saw that he was dead!

“’Twas the pace that killed him!” I muttered to myself, gleefully adapting the old saw to the circumstance which was giving me so much gratification.

I lost no time in dismounting from my horse, with the design of taking possession of my prize.

As I approached the fallen gobbler, I stopped short to contemplate him.

A splendid creature he appeared, even in death. His plumage still gleamed with the iridescent hues of life – just as at sunrise of that morning, when he had strutted his short hour over the prairie turf before the eyes of his coquettish female companions.

I was still occupied in this post-mortem examination, when I perceived that there was blood upon the beak of the bird – a tiny stream oozing out between its mandibles.

I was somewhat astonished by this singular circumstance – the effect of a simple chase. But I was a hundredfold more surprised on perceiving the true cause of the sanguinary extravasation, when I saw the feathered end of an arrow protruding out from under the wing-coverts of the turkey.

I had scarcely time to reflect on this singular appearance, when I heard a “swishing” noise in the air above me.

I looked up. A looped cord was descending over my head, which the instant after had settled upon my shoulders. At the same instant a wild yelling filled my ears; and I saw running towards me a score of human forms, whose naked, bronze-coloured skins, clouted thighs, and vermillion faces, proclaimed them to be Indians.

I perceived at once that I had fallen into the hands of a party of Comanches – on the war-trail, too – as their scant dress and painted faces proclaimed.

They had been bivouacking on the other side of the ridge; and seeing only the turkey as it came upon the crest, some one of them had taken advantage of the pause which the bird had made on perceiving them, and sent an arrow into its side.

When I said just now that I had fallen into their hands, I spoke figuratively. It had not gone quite so far as that; though, had I been without the bowie-knife habitually carried in my belt, such most certainly would have been my fate – and I should, perhaps, never have had an opportunity of recording this adventure.

But the keen blade proved my preserver. In an instant it was out of its sheath; and the lazzo that had fallen over my shoulders – and in another second of time would have entangled my arms – lay, with its loop cut open, idly trailing upon the grass.

I never took to the saddle with greater celerity; and if my mustang had been allowed to lag a little while ascending that prairie slope, he made amends for the delay in going down again.

He needed neither voice nor spur to urge him to his utmost speed. The sight of the Indians, to say nothing of their wild yelling – well understood, and dreaded, by the mustang – had given him an impetus that carried him across the plain like a streak of lightning.

Fortunately, the Indians were afoot, and I was not followed; but this knowledge did not hinder me from continuing my gallop until I had retraced the ground gone over in the turkey chase, and rejoined my friends – still engaged with the gobblers they had pursued in the opposite direction.

My report caused a sudden suspension of their sports – succeeded by a quick ride straight homeward.

By good fortune, a brace of the birds had been already secured, to grace the dinner-table on the following day, and upon which they appeared, their flavour not a little heightened by the spice of adventure that had come so near preventing their capture.

Story 6
Trapped in a Tree

Among the many queer characters I have encountered in the shadow of the forest, or the sunshine of the prairie, I can remember none queerer, or more original, than Zebulon Stump – “Old Zeb Stump,” as he was familiarly known among his acquaintances.

“Kaintuck by birth and raisin’,” as he used to describe himself, he was a hunter of the pure Daniel Boone breed. The chase was his sole railing; and he would have indignantly scouted the suggestion, that he ever followed it for mere amusement.

Though by no means of uncongenial disposition, he affected to hold all amateur hunters in a kind of lordly contempt; and his conversation with such was always of a condescending character. For all this, he was not averse to their company; especially that of the young gentlemen of the neighbourhood who chanced to be honoured with his acquaintance.

Being myself one of those who could lay claim to this privilege, I oft-times availed myself of it; and many of my hunting excursions were made in the companionship of Old Zeb Stump. He was, in truth, my guide and instructor, as well as companion; and initiated me into many mysteries of American woodcraft, in which I was at that time but little skilled.

To me one of the most insoluble of these mysteries was that of Old Zeb’s own existence; and I was acquainted with him for a considerable time before I could unravel the clue to it. He stood six feet in boots, fabricated out of the tanned skin of an alligator – into the ample tops of which were crowded the legs of a pair of coarse “copperas” trowsers; while the only other garments upon his body were a doeskin shirt, and a “blanket-coat” that had once been green, but, like the leaves of the autumnal forest, had become changed to a sere and yellowish hue. A slouch “felt” shaded his cheeks from the sun; though for this purpose it was not often needed: since it was only upon very rare occasions that Old Zeb strayed beyond the shadows of the “Timber.”

Where he lived, and how he supported himself, were to me the two points that chiefly required clearing up. In the tract of virgin forest, where I was in the habit of meeting him by appointment, there was neither house nor hut. So said the people of Grand Gulf (a small town upon the Mississippi in which I was sojourning). And yet Old Zeb had told me that in this forest region was his home.

It was only after our acquaintance had ripened into a strong feeling of fellowship, that I became his guest; and had the pleasure of spending an hour under his humble roof.

Humble I may truly designate it, since it consisted of the hollow trunk of a gigantic sycamore-tree, still strading and growing!

In this cavity Old Zeb found sufficient shelter for him self, his “squaw,” as he termed Mrs Stump (whose existence was now for the first time revealed to me), his penates, and, when the weather required it, for the tough old cob that carried him in his forest wanderings.

His household was no longer a puzzle; though there still remained the mystery of how he managed to maintain it.

A skilled hunter might easily procure sufficient food for himself and family; but even the hunter disdains a diet exclusively game. There was the coffee (to a strong cup of which I was myself made welcome); the “pone” of corn-bread; the corn itself necessary to the sustenance of the old horse; the muslin gown that shrouded the somewhat angular outlines of Mrs Stump; with many other commodities that could not be procured by a rifle. Even the rifle itself required food not to be found in the forest.

Presuming on our friendly intimacy, I put the question:

“How do you make out to live? You don’t appear to manufacture anything, nor do I see any signs of cultivation around your dwelling. How, then, do you support yourself?”

“Them keeps us – them thar,” answered my host, pointing to a corner of his tree-cabin.

I looked in the direction indicated. The skins of several species of animals, among which I recognised those of the painter, ’possum, and ’coon, along with a haunch or two of recently-killed venison, met my glance.

“Oh! you traffic in these?”

“Jess so, stranger. Sells the skins to the storekeeper an’ the deer meat to anybody as’ll buy it.”

“But I have never seen you in the town.”

“I never goes thar. I don’t like them stinkin’ storekeepers. They allers cheats me.”

“Who, then, does the marketing for you?”

“The ole ’oman thar. She kin manage them counter-jumpers better’n I kin. Can’t you, ole gurl?”

“Well, that I guess I can,” replied the partner of Old Zeb’s bosom, with an emphasis that left no doubt upon my mind that she believed herself to be speaking the truth.

I now recollected having more than once seen Mrs Stump in the streets of Grand Gulf, on her marketing errands, and having dined at an hotel upon a haunch of buck of her especial providing. Still more, I remembered purchasing from her a brace of white-headed eagles (falco-leucocephalus), which this good lady had brought in from the forest, and which I had forwarded to the Zoological Society of London.

Old Zeb’s shooting was something that to me at the time appeared marvellous. He could “bark” a squirrel among the tops of the tallest tree; or could equally kill it by sending his bullet through its eye. He used to boast, in a quiet way, that he never “spoilt a skin, though it war only that o’ a contemptible squ’ll.”

But what interested me more than all was his tales of adventure, of most of which he was himself the hero. Many of these were well worthy of being recorded.

One I deemed of especial interest, partly from its own essential oddness, partly from the quaint queerness of the language in which it was related to me, and not a little from the fact of its hingeing on a phenomenon, to which more than once I had myself been witness. I allude to the caving in, or breaking down of the banks of the Mississippi river, caused by the undermining influence of the current; when large slips of land, often whole acres, thickly studded with gigantic trees, glide into the water, to be swished away with a violence equalling the vortex of Charybdis.

It was in connection with one of these land-slips that Old Zeb had met with the adventure in question, which came very near depriving him of his life, as it did of his liberty for a period of several days’ duration.

Perhaps the narration had best be given in his own piquant patois; and I shall so set it forth, as nearly as I can transcribe it from the tablets of my memory.

I was indebted for the tale to a chance circumstance: for it was a rare thing in Old Zeb to volunteer a story, unless something turned up to suggest it.

We had killed a fine buck, which had run several hundred lengths of himself with the lead in his carcass, and had fallen within a few feet of the bank of the river.

While stopping to “gralloch the deer,” Old Zeb looked around with a pointed expression, as he did so, exclaiming:

“Darn me! ef this ain’t the place whar I war trapped in a tree! Dog-gone ef taint! Thar’s the very saplin’ itself.”

I looked at the “saplin’” to which my companion was pointing. It was a swamp cypress, of some thirty feet in girth, by at least a hundred and fifty in height.

“Trapped in a tree?” I echoed, with emphatic interest, perceiving that Old Zeb was upon the edge of some odd adventure.

Desirous of tempting him to the relation of it, I continued, “Trapped in a tree? How could that be, Mr Stump, an old forester like you?”

“It did be, howsomedever,” was the quaint reply of my companion, “an’ not so very long agone neyther; only about three yeer. Ef ye’ll sit down a bit, an’ we may as well, since the sun’s putty consid’able hellish hot jest now, I’ll tell ye all about it. An’ I kin tell ye, for I hain’t forgotten neery sarcumstance o’ the hul thing. No, that I hain’t, an’ I’ll lay odds, young feller, that ef you ever be as badly skeeart as I war then, you’ll carry the recollexshun o’ that skeear till ye gets chucked into yur coffin – ay, that ye will!”

Old Zeb here paused; but whether to reflect on what he was going to say next, or to give time for his last words to produce their due impression, I could not determine. I refrained from making rejoinder, knowing that I had now got him fairly over the edge of the adventure, and was safe enough to “have it out.”

“Wal, kumrade, I war out arter deer, jest as you an’ me are the day; only it had got to be lateish – nigh sundown i’deed – and I hadn’t emptied my rifle the hul day. Fact is, I hadn’t sot eye on a thing wuth a charge o’ powder an’ lead. I war afut; an’, as you know yerself, it are a good six mile from this to my shanty. I didn’t like goin’ home empy handed, ’specially as I knowed we war empy-housed at the time, an’ the ole ’ooman wanted somethin’ to get us a pound or two o’ coffee an’ sugar fixins. So I thort I shed stay all night i’ the wuds, trustin’ to gettin’ a shot at a stray buck or a turkey-gobbler i’ the urly daylight. I war jest in the spot whar we air now; only it looked quite different then. The under scrub’s been all burnt down, as you may see. Then the hul place about hyar war kivered wi’ the tallest o’ cane, an’ so thick, a coon ked scace a worm’d his way through it.

“Wal, stranger, ’ithout makin’ more ado, I tuk up my quarters for the night under that ere big cyprus. The groun’ war dampish, for thar had been a spell o’ rain; so I tuk out my bowie, an’ cut me enuf o’ the green cane to make me a sort o’ a shake-down.

“It war comfitable enuf; an’ in the twinklin’ o’ a buck’s tail I war sound asleep.

“I slep like a ’possum till the day war beginnin’ to break; an’ then I awoke, or rayther, war awoke by the damdest noise as ever rousted a fellar out o’ his slumber. I heerd a skreekin’, an’ screamin’, an’ screevin’, as ef all the saws in Massissippi war bein’ sharped ’ithin twenty yards o’ my ear.

“It all kim from overhead, from out the tops o’ the cyprus.

“I warn’t puzzled a bit by them thar sounds. I knowed it war the calling o’ the baldy eagles: for it warn’t the fust time I had listened to them thar.

“‘Thar’s a neest,’ sez I to myself; ‘an’ young uns too. Thet’s why the birds is makin’ such a dod-rotted rumpus.’

“Not that I cared much about a eagle’s neest, nor the birds themselves neyther. But jess then I remembers some thin’ my ole ’ooman hed tolt me. She hed heerd thet there war a rich Britisher staying at the hotel in Grand Gulf, who were offerin’ no eend o’ money to whomsoever ud git him a brace o’ young baldy eagles.”

“You were rightly informed: it was I who made the offer.”

“Dog-gone it, wur it you? Ef I’d know’d – but niver mind; I kudn’t a done diff’rent from what I did. Wal, strenger, in coorse I clomb the tree. It warn’t so easy as you may s’pose. Thar war forty feet o’ the stem ’ithout a branch, an’ so smooth that a catamount kedn’t a scaled it. I thort at first that the cyprus warn’t climeable nohow; but jess then I seed a big fox-grape-vine, that arter sprawlin’ up another tree clost by, left this un, an’ then sloped off to the one whar the baldies hed thar neest. This war the very thing I wanted – a sort o’ Jaykup’s ladder – an’ ’ithout wastin’ a minute o’ time, I speeled up the grape-vine.

“It warn’t no joke neyther. The darned thing wobbled about till I wur well nigh pitched back to the groun’: an’ there war a time when I thort seriously o’ slippin’ down agin.

“But then kim the thort o’ the ole woman an’ the empty house at hum, along wi’ what she’d sayed about the Britisher an’ his big purse; and bein’ freshly narved by these recolleckshuns, I swarmed up the vine like a squ’ll.

“Once upon the Cyprus thar warn’t no diffeequilty in reachin’ the neest. There war plenty o’ footin’ among the top branches whar the birds had made thar eyeray.

“For all that it warn’t so easy to get into the neest. There kedn’t a been less than a waggon-load o’ sticks in that thar construckshun, to say nothin’ o’ Spanish moss, an’ the baldies’ own dreppins, an’ all sorts o’ bones belonging to both fish an’ four-footed anymals. It tuk me nigh an hour to make a hole so that I ked get my head above the edge, and see what the neest contained.

“As I expected, thar war young ’uns in it, two o’ them about half-feathered. All this time the ole birds had been abroad – as I supposed, lookin’ up a breakfast for thar chicks.

“‘How darned disappointed they’ll be!’ sez I to myself, ‘when they gits back an’ find that thar young ’uns have fled the neest – ’ithout feathers!’

“I war too sure o’ my game and too kewrious about the young baldies, watchin’ them as they cowered close together, hissin’ and threetenin’ me, to take notice o’ anythin’ besides.

“But I war rousted out o’ my rev’rie by feelin’ the hat suddintly jirked up off o’ my head, at the same time gettin’ a scratch across the cheek, that sent the blood spurtin’ all over my face. It wur the talons o’ the she eagle as did it; while the ole cock, clost to her tail, kept skreekin’ an’ screamin’ an’ makin’ a confusion o’ noises, as if he had jess come custrut from the towers o’ Babylon.

“I had grupped one o’ the young baldies afore the old ’uns kim up. I needn’t tell ye I war only too glad to let the durned thing go agen, an’ duck my head under the edge o’ the neest; whar I kep it, till the critters had got a sort o’ tired threetenin’ me, and guv up the attack.

“I needn’t tell ye, neyther, thet I, too, hed gin up all thort o’ takin’ the young eagles. Arter the wound I’d received I war contented to leave ’em alone; an’ not all the gold in the Britisher’s purse ked then have bought that brace o’ birds.

“I only waited to rekiver my composure; an’ then I commenced makin’ back tracks down the tree.

“I hed got ’bout halfway atween the baldies’ neest an’ the place whar the fox-grape tuk holt o’ the cyprus, when I war stopped short by somethin’ I heerd – a sound far more terrific than the screech o’ the eagles.

“It war the creakin’ and crashin’ o’ timber – along wi’ that unairthly rumblin’ such as ye may hear when the banks o’ the great Mississippi be a cavin’ in.

“It war that very thing itself. I kud see the trees that stood atween me an’ the river, tumblin’ an’ tossin’ about, an’ then goin’ wi’ a grand swish an’ a plunge into the fast flowin’ current o’ the stream. The cyprus itself shook as if the wind war busy among its branches. I ked feel a suddint jirk upon it, an’ then it righted agin, and stood steady as a rock. The eagles above me war screamin’ wusa than ever, while I below war tremblin’ like an aspin.

“I knowed well enuf what it all meaned. I knowed that it war the bank o’ the river cavin’ in; but knowin’ this, didn’t gie me any great satisfaction: since I war under the belief that in another minute the Cyprus mout cave in too.

“I didn’t stay the ten thousandth frakshun o’ a minute. I hurried to git back to the groun; an’ soon reached the place whar the grape-vine jeined on to the Cyprus.

“There warn’t no grape-vine to be seen. It war clur gone away.

“The tother tree to which its root had been clingin’ war one o’ them as had falled into the river, takin’ the fox-grape along wi’ it. It war that had gin the pluck I feeled when descendin’ from the neest.

“I looked below. The river had changed its channel. Instead o’ runnin’ twenty yurds from the spot it war surgin’ along clost to the bottom o’ the cyprus. I seed that in another minuit the cyprus itself mout topple over into the stream, an’ be whirled along, or swallowed in the frothin’ water.

“For me to git to the ground was plainly unpossible. I ked only do so by jumpin’ forty foot in the clur, an’ I knew that to do so wud a shivered my ole thigh-bones, tough as they mout be.

“I ked do nothin’ but stay whar I war – nothin’ but wait and watch – listenin’ to the screamin’ o’ the eagles – as skeeart as myself – to the hoarse roarin’ o’ the angry waters, an’ the crashin’ o’ the trees, as one arter another they fell victims to the underminin’ influence o’ the flood.”

I had by this time become fascinated by the narrative, Old Zeb’s thoughts, notwithstanding the patois in which they were expressed, had risen to the sublime; and although he paused for some minutes, I made no attempt to interrupt his reflections, but in silence I waited for him to continue his tale.

“Wal, strenger, what do ye suppose I did next?” was the interrogation with which my ears were soon after saluted.

“Really, I cannot imagine,” I replied, considerably surprised at Old Zeb’s question, abrupt as it was unexpected.

“Wal; ye don’t suppose I kim down from the tree?”

“I don’t see how you could.”

“Neyther did I. I kedn’t an’ I didn’t. I mout as well a tried to git down the purpendikler face o’ the Chicasaw bluff, or the wall o’ Lexin’ton Court-house. I seed I kedn’t make a descent o’ it no how, an’ thurfore I guv it up, an’ stayed whar I war, crosslegs on a branch o’ the tree.

“It warn’t the most comfutable kind o’ seat, but I hed somethin’ else than kushions to think o’. I didn’t know the minnit I mout be shot out into the Massissippi; an’ as I never war much o’ a swimmer – to say nothin’ o’ bein’ smashed among the branches in fallin’, I warn’t over satisfied wi’ my situation.

“As I ked do nothin’ but stick it out, I stuck it out, keepin’ to my seat like death to a dead nigger, only shiftin’ a leetle now an’ then to ease my achin’ posteerors.

“In this unkomfitable condishun I passed the hul o’ that day. Though there warn’t an easy bone in my body, I had got to be a bit easier in my mind; for on lookin’ down at the river, I begun to believe that the cavin’ in had kum to an eend, an’ that the Cyprus war goin’ to keep its place.

“So far I felt komfited; but this feelin’ didn’t last long. It war follered by the reflexshun that whether the tree war to stand or fall, I war equally a lost man.

“I knowd that I war beyond the reach o’ human help. Nothin’ but chance ked fetch livin’ critter within hearin’ o’ my voice. I seed the river plain enuf, an’ boats mout be passin’ up an’ down – both steam an’ flat – but I knowed that both was ’customed to steer along the opposite shore, to ’void the dang’rous eddy as sets torst the side I war on. The river, as ye see, young feller, are moren’ a mile wide at this place. The people on a passin’ boat wudn’t hear me; an’ if they did, they’d take it for some one a mockin’ o’ them. A man hailin’ a boat from the top o’ a cyprus tree! I knowd it ’ud be no use.

“For all that I made trial o’ it. Boats did come past, o’ all kinds as navigate the Massissippi; steamers, keel-boats, an’ flats. I hailed them all – hailed till I was hoarse. They must a heerd me. I’m sartain some o’ ’em did, for I war answered by shouts o’ scornful laughter. My own shouts o’ despair mout a been mistuk for the cries o’ a mocker or a madman.”

The hunter once more paused in his narrative, as if overpowered by the remembrance of those moments of misery. I remained silent as before – as before struck with the sublimity of thought, to which the backwoodsman was unconsciously giving speech.

Observing my silence he resumed his narration.

“Wal, strenger; I kim to the konclusion that I war trapped in that tree, an’ no mistake. I seed no more chance o’ gettin’ clur than kud a bar wi’ a two ton log across the small o’ his back. The only hope I hed war that the ole ooman ’ud be arter me, as she usooally is whensoever I’m missin’ for a spell. But that moutn’t be for a single night, nor two on ’em in succession. Beside, what chance o’ her findin’ me in a track o’ timmer twenty mile in sarcumference? That hope war only ’vanesccnt, an’ soon died out ’ithin me.

“It war just arter I had gin up all hope o’ being suckered by anybody else, that I begun to think o’ doin’ suthin’ for myself. I needed to do suthin’. Full thirty hours hed passed since I’d eyther ate or drunk, for I’d been huntin’ all the day before ’ithout doin’ eyther. I war both hungry an’ thusty – if anythin’, sufferin’ most from the last-mentioned o’ them two evils. I ked a swallered the muddiest water as ever war found in a puddle, an’ neyther frogs nor tadpoles would a deterred me. As to eatin’, when I thort o’ that, I kudn’t help runnin’ my eyes up’ards; an’ spite o’ the spurt I’d hed wi’ thar parents I ked a’ told them young baldies that thur lives war in danger.

“Possible, I mout a feeled hungrier an’ thustier than I did, if it hedn’t been for the fear I war in, ’bout the cyprus topplin’ over into the river. That hed kep me in sich a state o’ skeear as to hinder me from thinkin’ o’ moust anythin’ else. As the time passed, hows’ever, an’ the tree still kep its purpendicklar, I begun to b’lieve that the bank warn’t agoin to move any more. I ked see the water down below, through the branches o’ the cyprus, an’ tho’ it war clost by, thar ’peared to be a clanjamfery o’ big roott stickin’ out from the bank, as war like to keep the dirt firm agin the underminin’ o’ the current – leastwise for a good spell.

“Soon as I bekum satersfied o’ this, I feeled easier; an once more tuk to thinkin’ how I war to get down. Jess as afore, the thinkin’ warn’t to no purpiss. Thar war no way but to jump it, an’ I mout as well ha’ thort o’ jumpin’ from the top o’ a ’piscopy church steeple ’ithout gettin’ squashed. I gin the thing up in shur despurashun.

“By this time it hed got to be night; an’ as thar warn’t no use o’ my makin’ things wuss than they war, I looked about the cyprus to see ef thar war any limb softer than another, whar I ked lay my karkiss for a snoose.

“I found a place in one o’ the forks large enuf to lodge a full growd bar. Thar I squatted.

“I slep putty well, considerin’ thet the scratch the eagle had gin me had got to be soreish, an’ war wuss torst the mornin’. Beside, I warn’t quite easy in my mind ’bout the cavin’ in o’ the bank; an’ more’n once I woke wi’ a start thinkin’ I war being switched into the river. Nothin’ partickler happened till peep o’ day, an’ nothin’ very partickler then, ’ceptin’ that I feeled hungry enuf to eat a raw skunk. Jess at that minnit the young baldies war in bad kumpny. While I war thinkin’ o’ climbin’ up to the neest an’ ringin’ one o’ thar necks, I chanced to look out over the river. All at onest I see one o’ them big water-hawks —osparay they call ’em – plunge down an’ rise up agin wi’ a catfish in his claws. He hadn’t got twenty fut above the surface, when one o’ the old baldies – the hen it war – went shootin’ torst him like a streak o’ greased lightnin’. Afore he ked a counted six, I seed the she baldy comin’ torst the tree wi’ the catfish in her claws.

“‘Good,’ sez I to myself, ‘ef I must make my breakfast on the raw, I’d rayther it shed be fish than squab eagle.’

“I started for the neest. This time I tuk the purcaushun to unsheath my bowie, and carry it in my hand ready for a fight; an’ it warnt no idle purcaushun as it proved, for scace hed I got my head above the edge o’ the neest, when both the ole birds attackted me jess as before.

“The fight war now more evenly atween us; an’ the cunnin’ critters appeared to know it, for they kep’ well out o’ reach o’ the bowie, though floppin’ an’ clawin’ at me whenever they seed a chance. I gin the ole hen a prod thet cooled her courage considrable; an’ as for the cock, he warn’t a sarcumstance to her, for, as you knows, young feller, the cock o’ eagles is allers the hen bird.

“The fish war lyin’ in the bottom o’ the neest whar the hen had dropped it. It hadn’t been touched, ’ceptin’ by her claws whar she had carried it; and the young ’uns war too much skeeart durin’ the skrimmage to think o’ thar breakfast.

“I spiked the catfish on the blade o’ my bowie, an’ drawin’ it torst me, I slid back down the tree to the fork whar I had passed the night. Thar I ate it.”