Susie and Pen had a grand ride to the farmhouse on the wood-sleigh.
Perched away up there on top of the brushwood, they could get the full effect of every swing and lurch of the load under them. Vosh Stebbins had to chuckle again and again, in spite of his resolute politeness; for the girls would scream a little, and laugh a great deal, when the sleigh sank suddenly on one side in a snowy hollow, or slid too rapidly after the oxen down a steeper slope than common. It was great fun; and, when they reached the house, Susie Hudson almost had to quarrel with aunt Judith to prevent being wrapped in a blanket, and shoved up in a big rocking-chair into the very face of the sitting-room fireplace.
"Do let her alone, Judith," said aunt Farnham. "I don't believe she's been frost-bitten."
"I'm not a bit cold."
"I'm real glad o' that," said aunt Judith; "but ain't you hungry?—Pen, you jest fetch up some krullers."
Susie admitted that she could eat a kruller, and Pen had no need to be told twice.
When Vosh came back from the woods with his second load, it was dinner-time; and Deacon Farnham came with him. Only a few minutes later, there was a great shouting at the kitchen-door, and there were the two boys. The whole family rushed out to see what they had brought home, and Susie thought she had never seen her brother look quite so tall.
"Corry beat ye, did he?" said Vosh as he turned the rabbits over. Something in the tone of that remark seemed to add, "Of course he did;" and Port replied to it,—
"Well, he's used to it. I never fired a gun before in all my life."
That was a frank confession, and a very good one to make; for the deacon exclaimed,—
"You never did! I declare! then you've done tip-top. You'll make a marksman one of these days."
"I hit two of my rabbits on the full run, anyhow."
"How about the deer?" said Vosh with a sly look. "Did you hit him on the run?"
"When you meet him," said Corry, "you can just ask him. He's the only fellow that knows: I don't."
"Like as not he doesn't either."
"Vosh," said Mrs. Farnham, "tell your mother to come over with you after tea, and spend the evening."
"She'll come: I know she will. I'll finish my chores early."
He swung his axe to his shoulder, and marched away, very straight, with a curious feeling that some city people were looking at him.
The boys and the girls and the older people were all remarkably ready for that dinner as soon as it was on the table.
"Pen," said Susie, "I didn't know chopping down trees would make me so hungry."
"Yes," said Deacon Farnham, "it's as bad as killing deer. Port and Corry are suffering from that. You did your chopping, as they did their deer-killing, at a safe distance."
After dinner it was a puzzle to everybody where the time went, it got away so fast. Pen took Susie all over the house, and showed her every thing in it, from the apples in the cellar to the spinning-wheel that had been carried up stairs the day before, and would have to come down again to-morrow.
"Aunt Judith's got a pile of wool, Susie. You ought to see it. She's going to spin enough yarn to last her all next summer."
"I'll get her to teach me to spin."
"Can you knit? If you can't, I'll teach you how. It's awful easy, as soon as you know."
Susie told Pen about her tidies and crochet-work and some other things, and was getting a little the best of it, until Pen asked very doubtfully,—
"Can you heel a stocking? It's worse, a good deal, than just to narrow 'em in at the toes. Aunt Judith says there ain't many women nowadays that can heel a stocking."
"I'll make her show me how. Dear me, Pen! did you know how late it is? Where can all the time have gone to?"
Corry and Porter knew where a part of theirs had gone, after they got back from the barns, and delivered to Mrs. Farnham and aunt Judith the eggs they had found. Corry got out his checker-board, and laid it on the table in the sitting-room.
"It's a big one," said Porter. "Where are your men?"
"Hanging up there in that bag. The wooden men got lost. We take horse-chestnuts for black men, and walnuts for white ones."
"S'pose you make a king?"
"That's a butternut, if it's black. If it's white, you put on one of those chunks of wood."
There was no danger of their getting out of checker-men; but Corry Farnham had a lesson to learn.
Porter Hudson knew a great deal more about checkers than he did about tree-chopping or rabbits.
Game after game was played, and it seemed to Corry as if his cousin "hit some of them on a full run." He got up from the last one they played, feeling a very fair degree of respect for Port; and the latter was pretty well restored to his own good opinion of himself.
That was something, for all his morning's experiences had been a little the other way; and he was not half sure he could again hit a running rabbit, if he should have a chance to try.
Susie and Pen had watched them for a while, but both boys had been very obstinate in not making any of the good moves Pen pointed out to them.
There were chores to do both before and after tea; and Porter went out with Corry, determined on undertaking his share of them.
"Did you ever milk cows, Port?"
"Well, no, I never did; but I guess I could if I tried."
"Well, I guess you'd best not try to-night, but you can learn before you go home. Some of our cows are skittish in cold weather."
Port was quite contented, after getting into the cowyard, to let the milking be done by some one who knew how; and he had the satisfaction of seeing Corry kicked over into the snow—pail, milk, and all—by a brindled heifer who had no need of any kind of weather to bring out her natural skittishness.
There were pigs and cattle and horses to feed, and supper to be eaten; and when, at last, the boys had finished their duties, the rest of the family was already gathered in the sitting-room.
Mrs. Farnham and aunt Judith had their knitting; and the deacon had a newspaper in his lap, with his spectacles lying in the middle of it. It seemed, however, the most natural thing in the world, that they should all be sitting in a great semicircle in front of the fireplace. The night promised to be a cold one, and the fire had been built for it in the most liberal manner.
"Corry," said Porter, "what are all those flat-irons and hammers for?"
"Why, to crack nuts. I'm going down cellar to bring 'em up,—butternuts and hickory-nuts. There was a big crop of 'em last fall."
"I'll go with you."
"So will I," said Pen. "Come, Susie, and we'll bring up the apples and pears and some cider."
"Now, Pen," said aunt Judith, "look out you don't leave the cider runnin', like you did once. You may fetch up a cake of maple-sugar, if anybody wants any. And don't you tetch them hard russets. They won't be fit to eat till spring."
Aunt Judith's instructions continued almost without cessation, till the young folk were all at the bottom of the cellar-stairs. Corry and Pen carried candles; but the light of these only served to make that cellar look ten times larger and darker and more mysterious. It seemed as if it had neither sides nor ends; but the heavy black beams overhead were not so wonderfully far away. Pen showed Susie bin after bin of carefully selected winter apples and pears, and there were half a dozen barrels of cider ranged against the wall.
"It's all pretty sweet now, but it'll be hard enough some time. Then some of it'll make vinegar."
"What's in the little barrel?"
"Aunt Judith's currant-wine. She says it'll be the best wine in the world when it's old enough. Whenever anybody in the Valley gets sick, she takes a bottle of it, and goes there."
"She's real good."
"Susie, look at all the mince-pies on the swing-shelf."
"Ever so many!"
Scores of them, for the swing-shelf ran the whole length of the cellar right down the middle, and it held double rows of pies all ready to be carried up and warmed for use. Susie would have been willing to stay a few minutes, and look at the treasures in that cellar; but Corry suddenly exclaimed,—
"Port, let's hurry. They've come. Don't you hear Mrs. Stebbins?"
Just a little before that, aunt Judith up stairs had turned to the deacon with the remark,—
"Joshaway, I knew she'd come with Vosh. You can always hear her before she gets to the gate; leastwise, on a quiet night like this. I remember one night it was a-stormin', and the wind blew so hard she got right up to the door, and I hadn't heard a sound till she had her hand on the latch."
They could hear her now.
"And, Lavawjer, you must just mind one thing: you mustn't talk too much. Let them do their own talkin', specially Susie. I can't begin to tell what kind of a gal she's growin' up to be, onless I can hear her talk."
"Then Vosh'll have to keep a-givin' his mother somethin' to eat," snapped aunt Judith: "she never stops talkin' any other time."
Mrs. Farnham herself, while the young people were down stairs, had thoughtfully walked out into the storeroom adjoining the kitchen, and returned with a long-handled wire corn-popper, and a bag of what she called "'tucket corn." It was corn with small, round, blue-black kernels, that can pop out larger and whiter, for its size, than any other kind that grows. There is a legend that the seed of it came originally from the island of Nantucket; but it has short "nubbin" ears, and even the island Indians must have found it a poor crop for any thing but popping.
Mrs. Stebbins was at the door now; and she never dreamed of knocking, and waiting out there in the cold until somebody should come to let her in. She was hardly over the threshold, before she said, as she loosened her shawl,—
"Judith, where is Susie and her brother, and Corry and Pen? They haven't gone away somewhere the very first night, have they? Vosh he told me they'd be at home, and I just thought I'd come over."
"They're down cellar. They'll be right up in a minute. Now, Angeline, you jest take off your hood and sit down.—Vosh, there's a chair. Hadn't you better take that popper and set to work?"
"Vosh tells me," continued his mother, "the boys got half a dozen of rabbits to-day. I don't care much for rabbits, but their hind-legs'll do to brile. And they seen a deer too. I'd ha' thought they might ha' shot it, if it was nigh enough. But then, deer isn't anyways like as easy to kill as they was when I was a gal. And they was only a couple of boys. I do say, now, here they come, and they're makin' racket enough for twenty."
They were coming indeed, streaming up out of the cellar, with every pair of hands full and a little more; and Mrs. Stebbins did not stop for an instant.
"Susie, is that you? Well, now, I must kiss you right away. Vosh said you was lookin' real pretty, and so you be; but he ain't always a good jedge. I knowed your mother when she wasn't no older'n you be now. She was Joshaway Farnham's sister. And so she's gone South for her health, and your father's gone with her, and you've come to put in the rest of your winter up here?—I do declare, Lavawjer, ef you ain't kerful, you'll burn up every kernel of that corn. Don't you stop to talk, and gawk around. Jest you tend to your corn-poppin'."
She had managed to get up from her chair and kiss Susie without interrupting the steady clack of her tongue; but she was a little out of breath for a moment, and sat still and watched them while they deposited upon the table the tall brown pitcher of cider, the pans of fruit, and the maple-sugar. The young folks had a chance to say a word to Vosh, and Corry and Porter each picked up a flat-iron and a hammer. There were plenty of nuts ready for them; and the sound of the cracking, and of the rattling, bursting corn in the popper, mingled oddly with Susie's efforts to answer the rapid inquiries poured upon her by Mrs. Stebbins.
"Now, Susie, I'm glad you've come. You're right from the city, and you're a well-grown gal now, and you know all about the fashions. We don't hear a word about 'em up here away till they've all come and gone, and somethin' else is in fashion. Got to wearin' short dresses, hev they? Think of me, or Judith, or your aunt Sarah Farnham, in short dresses! Wearin' panners too. I do say! What won't they put on next! Last thing they got up was them little skimp skirts for hard times, that came so nigh bein' the ruin of the dry-goods men. Didn't take no cloth at all.—Lavawjer, you're a-talkin' again. You just tend to your pop-corn."
"Now, Angeline," said Mrs. Farnham, "do take an apple, or a pear."
"Yes, Angeline," said aunt Judith, "and here's a plate of popped corn, and some nuts.—Joshaway, pour her out a mug of cider.—Pen, go to the cupboard and fetch a plate of krullers. It's the coldest kind of a night."
"So it is," began Mrs. Stebbins, "but the winters ain't what they used to be. No more the butternuts aren't, somehow; but I must say, you make out to have good fruit, though how you do it in these times beats me. Our trees die out."
Likely as not they did; but the attack had fairly begun, and poor Mrs. Stebbins found herself out-numbered. The deacon pressed her with the cider, and Mrs. Farnham with the krullers. There was the heaped-up plate of snowy white popped corn, and beside it was the tempting little hill of cracked hickory-nuts and butternuts. Susie broke off for her a noble piece of maple-sugar; and aunt Judith herself took a candle, and went down cellar for a couple of the best mince-pies. It was all too much for conversation of the kind Mrs. Stebbins delighted in.
"O Vosh!" suddenly exclaimed Susie. "Corry told us this morning about the bear you killed last winter."
It was cruel to mention such a thing just as Mrs. Stebbins had lifted a kruller, and she began to say,—
"Yes, about that bear. Lavawjer's father"—But she had to pause a moment, and Vosh took it up with,—
"No, Susie, I didn't kill him: I guess it was all three of us. He was chockfull of lead when he rolled over. We weren't twenty feet from him. Deacon Farnham he fired first, and then I did, and Corry; and we all had double-barrelled guns, and we didn't one of us miss. But it was a big bear"—
"Biggest kind," said Corry, "or he never could ha' lifted a fat hog clean out of the pen the way he did."
"I knowed a bear," began Mrs. Stebbins; but aunt Judith interrupted her with,—
"Now, Angeline, do take a slice of mince-pie. It's cold, but sometimes it's better cold than it is when it's warm."
The pie was too much for the memory of that other bear.
The sound of popping corn and cracking nuts had been almost incessant, and the young people had now succeeded in breaking all the ice the fire had left in that sitting-room. They were old acquaintances all around, and were chatting away merrily among themselves, with less and less reference to what might be going forward among the old folk by the table.
Mrs. Farnham and aunt Judith seemed to keep right along with their knitting, whatever else they might be doing. It seemed to do itself, a great deal like their breathing. Even the deacon managed to look into the corners of his newspaper while he pared an apple, or talked to Mrs. Stebbins. The light of the great astral-lamp on the table mingled with that from the fireplace in a sort of reddish-golden glow, that flickered over the walls and faces in a way to make every thing and every body wear a warm, contented, cosey look, that was just the right thing for a frosty winter evening.
By and by there came almost a full half-minute of silence, and at the end of it Vosh burst out as if an idea had taken him by surprise.
"I do declare! I never saw any thing jollier'n this is, in all my born days."
"Vosh," said Corry, "Port can beat you at checkers. You ought to have seen the way he beat me to-day. You just try him a game."
"Now, Lavawjer," said his mother from beyond the table, "you kin play well enough for way up here, but you can't think of comin' up to sech a young feller as Porter Hudson. He'll beat ye, sure."
At all events, he needed no more than that to make him try to do it; and Penelope brought out the great square board, and the bag of home-made checkers.
It must be confessed, that, after his triumphant experience with Corry, Porter Hudson imagined himself to have quite taken the measure of up-country skill and science at that game. He sat down to his new trial, therefore, with a proud assurance of a victory to come. It would have been kind of Corry to have given his cousin the least bit of a warning, but that young gentleman had been himself too roughly handled to feel very merciful. Besides, he had some very small and lingering doubt as to the result, and was willing to wait for it.
He need not have had any doubt, since there was really no room for any. Vosh was a born checker-player, and it is never easy to beat a fellow of that sort. Nobody ever knows exactly how they do it, and they themselves cannot tell. Their spare men get to the king-row, and their calculations come out right; and if you are Porter Hudson, and are playing against them, you get beaten very badly, and there's no help for you.
Corry watched that game with a suppressed chuckle, but it was a dreadful puzzle to Port. Even Pen did not venture to suggest a single good move, and the older people talked very quietly.
Mrs. Stebbins was a proud woman when Susie exclaimed,—
"Vosh has won it!"
It was of no use for aunt Judith to say,—
"Won't you have another slice of pie, Angeline, and some more cider?"
Mrs. Stebbins responded,—
"I don't keer if I do. Only I'm afeard it'll make me dream and talk in my sleep. Lavawjer always did play checkers mighty spry, but he ain't the player his father was when he was a young man. He didn't have no time to play checkers after he got to runnin' a farm of his own. Pie? Yes, Judith, you've got jest the right knack of makin' mince-pies." And while she went on to tell of the various good and bad pies she had seen or tasted, all the rest agreed with her about those they were eating. In fact, the good things of all sorts went far to reconcile even Porter Hudson to his defeat, and Vosh was truly polite about that. In less than two minutes he managed to get the other boys, and even the girls, talking about hunting, skating, coasting, sleigh-riding, and catching fish through the ice.
The evening seemed to melt away, it went so fast; and no one was willing to believe how late it was when Mrs. Stebbins began to put on her hood. They all saw her and Vosh to the door, and did not close that until the gate shut behind the last words the good woman succeeded in sending back to them.
It was something about boiled cider in mince-pies, but they failed to get it.
The Stebbins farm was not a large one, and neither its house nor barns compared well with Deacon Farnham's; but there was a great deal to be done in and around them, even in winter. Vosh was a busy boy, therefore, the next morning, and his mother was a busy woman; and it was not until an hour after breakfast that she said to him,—
"Now, Lavawjer, you jest hitch up that there new red cutter of yourn, and fetch it around. I want you to drive me to Benton Village, and, if I can't find what I want there, I'm goin' right on to Cobbleville."
Vosh had been thinking up a series of excuses for going over to the deacon's, but he made no mention of them; and it was a credit to him that his new turnout was so soon standing, all ready, by the front gate.
It was not a bad idea, that his first long drive in it should be with his mother; but he had a string of surprises before him that day.
The first came in the fact that his mother was unaccountably silent, and that, whenever she did open her lips, she had something to say about economy. Then she talked a little of the wickedness and vanity of buying or wearing any thing "just for show." City people, she freely declared, were doing that very thing all the while, and she was glad enough no one alive could accuse her of it.
Vosh was quite sure she was right; but he could not help, when they drove by Deacon Farnham's, and he saw the girls at the window, being a little glad that his cutter was of so bright a red, and so remarkably well varnished.
Benton Village was right down there in the valley, and the sorrel colt pulled them there in so short a time that it was no sleigh-ride at all.
Mrs. Stebbins said as much, after she had bought some tea and sugar at one store, and some raisins and some coffee at another.
"They haven't got what I want, Lavawjer. You kin drive right along to Cobbleville. There never was better sleighin', not even when I was a gal."
That was a great deal for her to admit, and Vosh put the colt to his very best speed along the well-travelled road to Cobbleville. That was several long miles, but they were strangely silent ones.
"Where shall I pull up, mother?" asked Vosh as they drove into the one long street of the village.
"You kin make your first stop right there, at old Gillis's harness-shop. I want to look at some o' them things in his front winder."
Something or other must have winked at Vosh; for he was out of that cutter, and had his colt hitched in front of Gillis's, in about half his usual time.
"Lavawjer," she said to him as she paused on the sidewalk, "don't you ever buy a thing just for show. You mustn't ever let your vanity get the best of you."
Two minutes later she was holding in her right hand a very useful string of sleigh-bells, and saying to him,—
"Now, Lavawjer, if you're ever drivin' along after dark, you won't be run into. Anybody'll know you're there, by the jingle. I'll kinder feel safer about ye."
Vosh thought he had not often seen less vanity in any thing than there was in those bells, and he was thinking of going right out to put them on the sorrel, when his mother exclaimed,—
"There! that's what I've been a-lookin' for,—that there red hoss-blanket, with the blue border and the fringe. Jest tell me what the price of it is."
It was only a very little, the best blanket in the shop; and she said to her son,—
"I don't know but it's kinder showy. You can't exactly help that. But it won't do for you to let that colt of yourn git warm, drivin' him sharp, and then let him catch cold when you hitch him. You must take keer of him, and see't he has his blanket on. You'll find it mighty useful."
"Guess I will!" said Vosh, with a queer feeling that he ought to say something grateful, and didn't know how. He was thinking about it, when his mother said to him,—
"That there headstall of yourn is gettin' cracked, and the check-rein might break some day. The rest of your harness'll do for a while. It's always safe to have your leather in good condition."
No doubt; and the sorrel colt was a different-looking animal when Vosh exchanged the head-gear he had worn coming, for the new rig the careful Mrs. Stebbins bought for him.
"Now, Vosh, there isn't any thing else I want in Cobbleville, but you may drive through the main street, and we'll take a look at the town."
He unhitched the colt, and sprang in after her. The new headstall, check-rein, and the bells were already in their places. The brilliant blanket was spread across their laps as they sat in the cutter. Vosh touched up the sorrel, and all the Cobbleville people who saw that turnout dash up the street for half a mile and back again were compelled to admit that it was decidedly a neat one.
"Now, Lavawjer," said his mother, "don't you never do nothin' jest for show. If you want to take Judith Farnham or her sister, or Penelope, or Susie Hudson, out a-sleighin', they won't need to turn up their noses at the rig you come after 'em in."
They had all been talking of Vosh and his mother that morning at Deacon Farnham's, and it was plain that the good qualities of the Stebbins family were fully understood by their next-door neighbors. The boys hoped Vosh would come over in the course of the day, but he did not. The next day was Saturday, and still he did not come. He was at work in his own barn, shelling corn for dear life, to let his mother know how fully he appreciated her generosity. He felt that it would take an immense deal of hard work to express all he felt about the bells and the blanket, not to speak of the bright bits of new harness.
The next day was Sunday, and Deacon Farnham's entire household went to meeting down at Benton Village. Almost all they saw of Vosh was when they turned around to look at the choir. Susie only did that once, for she somehow connected her catching his eye with the fact that he just then started on the wrong stanza of the hymn they were singing, and so got himself looked at by the choir-leader.
The next day, just after tea, Vosh came over "to have a word with Deacon Farnham," and he had an errand of some importance this time. Corry and Porter stood by, with their mouths wide open, while he delivered it. He was just inside the kitchen-door; and Susie and Pen were sitting on the other side of the stove, paring apples.
"There was a man came by to-day from one of the lumber camps way up among the mountains. He was on his way to town for supplies and things. He says the road to Mink Lake's good enough for a sleigh."
"All the way?" asked the deacon somewhat doubtfully.
"Every inch of it: I asked him. Now, why couldn't we go in for a mess of pickerel?"
"And a grand sleigh-ride!" exclaimed Corry.
"And an old-fashioned winter picnic!" added aunt Sarah Farnham. "How would you like that, Susie?"
"A winter picnic! I never heard of such a thing. How do you do it? Seems to me it would be splendid, if you could."
"A picnic, a picnic!" shouted Pen. "Fishing through the ice, Susie, and—and—there's ever so many other things.—Mother, can we go?"
Vosh Stebbins had spoken only about the pickerel, but the larger enterprise was what had really been upon his mind. Before he went home it had been thoroughly discussed, and pretty well arranged for.
"Corry," said Port after Vosh went away, "what sort of a place is Mink Lake?"
"It's the prettiest kind of a lake. It's a great place to go to in summer,—just crowded with fish."
"Is it far?"
"About eight or nine miles, right through the woods and around among the mountains. Crookedest road you ever saw. It's apt to be snowed up in winter; but we haven't had any deep snow yet, and it hasn't drifted much, somehow."
"What kind of fish,—trout?"
"Yes, there's trout, but there's more bass and pickerel and perch. You're apt to be awfully bothered with pumpkin-seeds in summer."
Port was silent. He wanted to ask about the pumpkins, and how the seeds could bother a fellow when he was fishing for trout. After a minute or so, he uttered one word,—
"Pumpkin-seeds?"
"Crowds of 'em. They're the meanest kind of fish. Bite, bite, bite, and you keep pulling 'em in, all the while you want something bigger."
"Can't you eat 'em?"
"Yes, they're good to fry, but they're full of bones. Not enough of 'em."
"They won't bite in winter, will they?"
"Hope not. Tell you what, Port, we're in for the biggest kind of a time."
That was an exciting evening. Nobody seemed to want to go to bed, and the semicircle around the fireplace talked of hardly any thing else but fishing and hunting. Deacon Farnham himself came out with some stories aunt Judith said she hadn't heard him tell for more than a year. Porter and Susie had no stories to tell, but they could listen. The former went to bed at last, with a vague feeling that he would rather go to Mink Lake. It was a good while before he got to sleep, and even then he had a wonderful dream. He dreamed he was trying to pull a fish as large as a small whale through a sort of auger-hole in some ice. He pulled so hard, he woke himself up; but he could roll over and go to sleep soundly, now the fish was gone.
The house was early astir in the morning; and Deacon Farnham's long, low box-sleigh, drawn by his two big black horses, was at the door by the time they were through breakfast. Mrs. Farnham had decided not to go, because, as she said,—
"It's Judith's turn. Somebody's got to stay and keep house."
It had required some argument to persuade aunt Judith that it was her duty to go, but she had taken hold of the preparations with a will. It was wonderful what an amount of wrapping-up she deemed necessary for herself and all the rest.
"Why, Judith," said the deacon, "it's a good deal warmer in the woods than it is out here."
"I've heerd tell so, and mebbe it's true, but I don't put any trust in it. I've no notion of bein' frost-bit before I get back."
There was little to be feared from the frost, with all the buffalo-robes and blankets and shawls and cloaks that were piled into that sleigh.
When its passengers were in, they made quite a party. There was the deacon (who insisted on driving), and aunt Judith, and Mrs. Stebbins and Vosh, and Corry, and Susie Hudson and Porter, and Penelope, in the sleigh, with Ponto all around outside of it; besides all the baskets of luncheon, the fishing-tackle, axes, and guns.
"You can't shoot fish," said Susie.
"May shoot something else," said Vosh. "There's no such thing as telling. It's a wild place."
"Susie!" exclaimed Pen, "didn't you know there were deer up at Mink Lake,—real deer?"
"Corry," whispered Port, "let's get one before we come home."
"Father's got his gun by him, all ready, but he won't let us get ours out till we reach the lake. He may get a shot at something as he drives along."
There was a sharp lookout for all kinds of wild animals, after the way began to wind among the piny woods, and through the desolate-looking "clearings" left by the choppers. The road was found even better than Vosh's news had reported it, and the black team pulled their merry load along quite easily.
The young folk soon got over the solemn feeling which came upon them when they found themselves actually in the great forest.
It was delightful to shout, and listen for echoes; and to sing, and know there was not a living pair of ears to hear, except those in the sleigh, and Ponto's.
It was about two hours after they left the farmhouse, and Port had just remarked,—
"Seems to me we've been going up hill all the time," when Corry suddenly exclaimed,—
"There it is! That's Mink Lake. It'll be down hill all the way going home. See it!"
"Lake!" said Port. "I don't see any lake. Oh, yes, I do! It's all ice and snow,—frozen clean over."
"And we haven't seen a single deer yet," said Susie sorrowfully.
"You can see some now, then," replied Vosh as he eagerly pointed forward. "See 'em, Susie? See 'em? Way down yonder on the ice."
"I see them!" shouted Pen. "One, two, three,fourof 'em."
"Those black specks?" said Susie.
There they were indeed, and they were beginning to move rapidly across the ice; but they were too far away for any thing more than just to make out what they were.
Even Ponto continued to plod along soberly behind the sleigh. He was too old a dog to excite himself over any such distant and impossible game as that.
Deacon Farnham seemed to know exactly what he was about; for he drove right on where nobody else could see any road, until he stopped in front of a very small and very rudely made kind of house.
"Aunt Judith," asked Susie, "did anybody ever live here?"
"Live here, child? Why, that there's a choppers' shanty. It's for anybody that wants it, now they've done with it."
That was so, but it was not for the mere human beings of that picnic-party. The deacon took his horses from the sleigh, and led them in through the rickety door.
"They're a little warm," he said, "but they won't catch cold in there. I'll give 'em a good feed, Vosh, while you're starting a fire.—Get the guns and tackle out, Corry."
Vosh had had a hard struggle with himself that morning to leave his own horse and cutter at home; but his mother had settled it for him. She remarked,—
"I'd ruther be in the big sleigh with the folks, so I can hear what's goin' on. So would Susie Hudson, or aunt Judith Farnham. You'd be kind o' lonely. Besides, that little thing of yourn 'd be upsettin' twenty times, over them mountain roads."
He was ready with his axe now; and Porter Hudson opened his eyes at the rapidity with which a great fire was blazing on the snow, a little distance from the shanty.
"What are we to get into?" asked Port.
"We won't need any shelter," said aunt Judith. "When it's time for dinner, we can eat it in the sleigh."
They were not yet thinking of eating. The first business on hand was a trip to the lake. Vosh Stebbins took his axe with him, and he and the deacon each carried a long, wide board. Port managed not to ask what these were for, and he had not a great while to wait before he knew.
"Vosh," said the deacon, "the ice must be pretty thick. Hope we sha'n't have to chop a hole."
"There's one air-hole, away yonder. It doesn't look too wide."
"Shouldn't wonder if it'd do."
"Susie," said Pen, "don't you know? That's where all the fish come up to the top to get a breath of fresh air."
There was some truth in Pen's explanation, in spite of the laugh she got from Mrs. Stebbins. Susie said nothing, for she was all eyes at that moment. She thought she had never seen any thing stranger or more beautiful than that little lake, all frozen, with the hills around it, and the mountains beyond them. The broken slopes of the hills and mountains were covered with white snow, green pines, spruces, hemlocks, and with the brownish gray of the other trees whose leaves had fallen from them. It was very wonderful and new to a young lady from the city.
"Most half the lake," said Vosh, "is smooth enough to skate on. If I'd ha' thought of that, I'd ha' brought along my skates."
It would have been worth while. Mink Lake was what some people call a "pond," and was hardly a mile wide by an irregular mile and a half long. There was an immense skating-rink there now, in spite of the snow which covered a large part of it.
Susie was just about to ask some more questions, when her uncle shouted,—
"This'll do, Vosh! Bring along your slide."
That was the board he was carrying, and its use was plain now. The air-hole was an opening in the ice, not more than two feet across, but the ice was thin at the edges of it. A heavy man, or a busy one, might break through, and let himself into a cold bath; but when those two "slides" were slipped along on either side of the hole, any one could walk right out, and drop in a hook and line safely enough.
"There, Susie," said Pen, "now we can keep our feet dry while we catch our fish."
"Now, folks!" exclaimed the deacon. "Two at a time. We'll take turns."
"Your turn's good till you've hooked a fish," said Vosh to Porter, as he handed him a line. "You and the deacon try it first."
It seemed very easy,—nothing to do but to stand on a dry board, and drop a line with a baited hook at the end of it through a two-foot hole in the ice. There was no long waiting to be done either.
"Father, father!" shouted Pen in a few moments. "You've got him!" There was a sort of electric shock went through the entire picnic; but the deacon jerked out a very good-looking fish with an unthankful look on his face.
"Nothing but a perch. He's a pound and a quarter, though.—Here, Mrs. Stebbins, take that other line, and see what you can do."
Mrs. Stebbins had talked quite industriously all the way, and even after they got upon the ice; but she stopped short the moment she took hold of that line. She had hardly dropped it in, before Porter Hudson exclaimed,—
"Corry, Corry!"
"Pull, Port! Pull! You've got a big one."
"So have I," screamed Mrs. Stebbins. "Deacon!—Vosh! It's awful! Come help me!"
"Pen," said Susie, "could it pull her through the hole?"
"Why, Susie!"
Pen's eyes and mouth were wide open; for both her cousin and Mrs. Stebbins were leaning back, and it seemed as if something down below were jerking at them.
"Wind it round your wrist, Port," said Corry. "Hang on!"
"Now, mother," said Vosh as he took hold of her line, "I declare, youhavehooked a good one. I guess I'll pull him in for you."
It hardly seemed to cost him an effort to bring a great three-pound pickerel through the hole, and sling him out upon the ice.
"That's better than perch, deacon."
"Shall I help you, Port?" asked Corry.
"No, sir-e-e-e! I'll bring in my own fish."
"Hand over hand! Don't let him get away from you."
Port's blood was up, now he had seen that other pickerel landed, and he pulled with all his might.
"Now lift," said Vosh. "Don't let him rub his nose against the ice, or he'll break loose. Don't lean over too far. That's it."
It was splendidly exciting; and Port followed the directions given him, although his heart was beating quickly, and he thought he had never lifted any thing else quite so heavy as that fish.
"Out he comes!" he shouted.
"Hurrah for Port!" said aunt Judith. "It's the biggest one yet."
So it was; and a proud boy was Porter Hudson when Deacon Farnham declared that the great fish he had fought so hard with was a seven-pound pickerel.
"Now, aunt Judith, it's your turn next."
"Me, Corry? Me? What could I do with a cretur like that?"
"I'll help you if you get a big one. Here's your line: you must try."
She had to be coaxed a little more, but she consented, and Susie herself took the other line. The fish were biting hungrily; for in less than a minute aunt Judith gave a little scream and a jerk, and began to pull in her line; then another little scream and another jerk, and then,—
"Perch!" she exclaimed. "Ain't I glad it wasn't a pickerel!—Penelope, you can ketch the rest of my fish for me. I'll just look on."
Susie's face grew almost pale, as she stood there with her line in her hand, waiting for something to pull on it.
"Do they nibble first, Vosh?"
Hardly were the words out of her mouth, before her line was suddenly jerked away from her. Vosh had just time to catch hold of the piece of wood the rest of it was wound upon.
"I've lost him, I've lost him!"
"No, you haven't, but he's running pretty well. Guess I'd better snub him. He'd have cut your fingers with the line if you'd ha' tried."
Susie's soft white hands were hardly suited to work of that sort, and they were already getting a little cold. She was quite willing to pick up her muff, and slip them into it while Vosh pulled in her pickerel for her. It was a right good one too, only a little less weighty than Porter's.
Pen had now taken the line from aunt Judith, and she dropped her hook in very confidently.
"There isn't a scrap of bait on it," said Corry.
"Isn't there? I forgot that. Just wait a minute, and then I'll let you put some on."
Corry and the rest began to laugh, but Pen shouted again,—
"He's nibbling! Now he's biting! Oh, he's bit!"
So he had, bait or no bait; and she was quite strong enough to pull up a very handsome perch without help from anybody.
After that, Deacon Farnham and the boys had the fishing all to themselves. It was well there was enough of it to make it exciting; for it was wet, cold, chilly work. The fish were of several sorts and all sizes; and some of them rubbed themselves free against the icy edges of the hole, in spite of all that could be done. Before noon there was a considerable pile of them lying on the ice, and the fun of catching them had lost a little of its power to keep the cold away.
Long before the fishermen decided that they had caught enough, Mrs. Stebbins and aunt Judith and the girls got tired of looking on, and set out across the ice towards the sleigh and the very attractive-looking fire. The latter had been well heaped up at first, and was now blazing vigorously.
"We must have a good dinner ready for 'em," said aunt Judith when she turned away,—"all the fish they can eat."
"You carry one," said Mrs. Stebbins: "I'll take a couple more. The girls can help. We'll brile 'em, and we'll fry 'em, and we'll roast 'em in the ashes."
She tried to think of some other way, but she could not. She and aunt Judith were excellent cooks, and knew just what to do with fresh fish and such a fire. It was by no means their first picnic either, and the right things to cook with had not been left at home. Susie and Pen entered into the spirit of it with a vast deal of enthusiasm, but they were quite contented to let the more experienced cooks clean the fish.
"We're having the splendidest kind of a time, ain't we?" said Pen.
"Splendid! It's the first winter picnic I ever heard of."
"I never had one before, but I've heard mother tell of 'em."
There was plenty to do; and when at last the fishermen gave up dropping lines through the air-hole, and came plodding slowly back across the ice, there was all the dinner they could reasonably ask for, hot and smoking, and ready for them.
Such noble strings of fish they were dragging after them, and such hearty appetites they brought to that tempting "spread"!
There was hot coffee to be drank out of tin cups, fish in several styles of cookery, crisp fried pork, roasted potatoes, bread and butter, and last of all was some cold meat that nobody seemed to care for.
"Will there be any dessert?" asked Port.
"Aunt Judith's got some mince-pies warming on the log by the fire."
"What a dinner for the woods!"
"Woods! Why, the choppers have fresh fish and potatoes and coffee all the while, and sometimes they have venison."
"Game," said Port, "but no pie."
"Vosh," said Susie, "what has become of all your deer?"
Just at that moment they heard old Ponto barking away at a great rate in the woods near by; and Vosh sprang up, exclaiming,—
"He's treed something!"
"Guess he has," said the deacon. "Get your guns, boys. Load with buckshot."
"Mine's loaded," said Vosh.
"Mine'll be ready in a minute," said Corry. "Quick now, Port!"
"Hold on," said the deacon. "We must all have a share in the fun, if there is any."
It seemed to Susie and Pen that they could hardly wait for those two guns to be loaded; and Mrs. Stebbins exclaimed,—
"Judith, I do hate a gun; but I'm a-goin' with 'em. Ain't you?"
"Course I am. Just hark to that there dog!"
He must have shared in the general impatience, to judge by the noise he was making; and now there came another and a very curious kind of sound from that direction.
"It's a baby crying," said Pen.
"Or a cat," began Port.
"Sakes alive!" exclaimed Mrs. Stebbins. "I do believe the critter's gone and treed a wildcat."
"I guess that's it," said the deacon.
It was indeed that precisely.
They all kept together, as they waded through the snow to a spot about twenty rods into the woods, from which they could see old Ponto bounding hither and thither around the trunk of a tall maple-tree that stood by itself in the middle of an open space in the forest.
"No other tree handy for him to jump into," said Vosh. "There he is!"
"Where?" asked aunt Judith.
"See him? Up there on that big lower limb!"
"It's a good forty feet from the ground," said the deacon. "Come on, boys.—All the rest stay here."
"O Pen!" said Susie, "I do believe I'm afraid. Will he jump?"
"They'll shoot him down, and then Ponto'll grab him."
"He'd make short work of one dog, if he once got at him," said Corry. "Too much for Ponto."
There was little doubt of that, for it was a wildcat of the very largest size; not so dangerous an animal as a panther, but a terribly hard scratcher, and apt to require a great deal of killing.
He seemed even larger than he really was, as he drew himself up on the long, bare limb of the tree, and looked down so savagely upon his barking enemy.
It may be that the smell of the cookery, particularly of the fish, had tempted him so near the picnic. Then Ponto had scented him in turn, and had chased him into that solitary tree.
"Now, boys," said Deacon Farnham, "all around the tree! Fire as soon as you can after I do, but keep your second barrels. We may have to give him more lead, even if we knock him down."
Porter Hudson knew he was not one bit scared, and wondered why he should shake so when he tried to lift his gun and take aim. He was sure he could not shoot straight, and hoped the shot would scatter well.
"Now, boys!" Bang! went the deacon's gun; and the other three followed, aim or no aim. The wildcat replied with an angry scream, and began to tear the bark of the limb with his sharp, strong claws. How they would have gone through any kind of flesh!
That was only for a second or so; and then he suddenly gathered himself for a spring at the spot nearly under him, where Ponto was furiously barking.
Alas for the great cat of the woods! Too many buckshot had struck him, and he fell short of his mark in the snow.
Vosh had been watching, and he was nearest. Hardly did the wounded animal reach the snow, before Susie saw Vosh spring forward, and fire the second barrel of his gun.
"He's a real brave fellow."
"So he is," said Pen and aunt Judith; but Mrs. Stebbins was too proud of her boy to say a word.
That was very nearly enough. Corry ran forward, and Porter after him, and the deacon followed; but Ponto was ahead of them all, and it would not do to fire at any risk of shooting the brave old dog.
There was no fight left in the wildcat when Ponto's teeth were buried in his neck; and he therefore had all the fun and glory of a great shaking and growling and worrying, without any danger of being scratched.
"Drop him, Ponto, drop him!" said the deacon. "I don't want that skin spoiled: it's a fine one. We didn't put as many shot into him as I thought we would."
He was killed now, surely enough, however, and Vosh could carry him to the sleigh; and they could all go back, and eat more pie, and talk about bears and wolves and panthers, till the two girls felt like looking around at the woods to see if any of that sort of people were coming.
"We don't need any more fish," said aunt Judith: "we've more'n enough for the whole neighborhood."
"No, we don't," said the deacon. "What's more, it looks some like a snow-storm. We'd best be packing up for home."
Even that was grand fun; but it seemed almost a pity to leave so good a fire behind them to burn itself out all alone there in the snow, with nobody to sit around it, and cook, and tell stories.
"It's a waste of wood," remarked aunt Judith regretfully.
If the road had been "all up hill" coming to the lake, it was just as much all down hill going home again; and that sleigh-ride was about as good as any other part of the picnic.
They all thought so until they reached the farmhouse, and found what a splendid supper Mrs. Farnham had prepared for them. It was very nearly a wonder to all of them, afterwards, how it was possible they should have been so very ravenously hungry twice in the selfsame day.
"I guess it's the picnic," said Pen.
"No," said Corry, "that wouldn't be enough: it's the wildcat."
Deacon Farnham and the boys spent a great deal of time that evening over the skin of the wildcat. There was some talk of having it stuffed; but, on mature deliberation, that idea was given up. One reason was that nobody in that neighborhood knew how. Aunt Judith doubted if that fine specimen of wild fur would ever be of any mortal use, but Susie came to the rescue with an old new idea.
"Why, aunt Judith," she said, "when it's all finished, there can be a fringe put on all around, and some strong canvas on the under side, and it would make a lamp-mat for a centre-table. I saw one once."
"In the city too? What won't they do next! And I suppose they paid a high price for it.—Joshaway, you cure the skin, and Sarah and I'll make a table-rug of it."
Fresh fish will keep a long time in cold weather, and a good part of the day's finny harvest was packed away for home consumption in both houses. Still, after supper, and tired as he was, poor Vosh had to pay one penalty of so much good luck. He had to hitch up the sorrel, and drive to the houses of half a dozen neighbors with presents of bass and pickerel and perch from Mink Lake. That was the very neighborly end of the grand winter picnic.
One of the first things learned by Susie and Porter Hudson, on their arrival at the farmhouse, had been that the reason why Corry and Pen were not attending school was that the teacher was sick.
"Soon as she's well again," said Pen, "we'll have to go. It's too bad, but she always gets well right away."
Hard as it was, the very next morning after the picnic, word came to the farmhouses all over the valley that school was open.
"Vosh," said his mother, "I can't have ye miss a day, not till you know more'n that there teacher does; and you ort to ketch up with her before the winter's out."
Some little plans of Vosh's, in which his horse and cutter had a part, were upset completely by the teacher's recovery; but the consequences were even more severe at Deacon Farnham's.
Corry and Pen were compelled to leave their cousins to take care of themselves every day till after school-hours. It was not so bad for Susie, with her two aunts to care for her. There was the milk-room and the spinning-wheel and the kitchen, and a dozen kinds of knitting to learn, and there were many good books in the house. It looked a little blue to Porter at first, but he faced it manfully. He determined not to spend an hour in the house that he could find a use for out of doors. He went with the deacon to the cattle-yard and the stables, and he learned more about horses and cows and oxen than he had supposed there was to learn.
The sheep, too, were very interesting; especially one old ram that took a dislike to him, and was strongly disposed to drive him out of the sheepfold every time he came in.
Porter discovered, too, that hens, ducks, turkeys, had to live and be cared for in winter as well as in summer; and Susie took a share with him in that part of his work and learning.
All that, and a great deal more, was close around the house; and it was a positive treat to make a trip, after a couple of days, to the forest with his uncle. There was likely to be more snow, the latter said, and he wanted to do all the chopping and hauling he could before the roads should be blocked. Port wondered if it would be possible to burn, before spring, as much wood as there was already in the woodshed; but it just suited him to go for more.
The deacon could do the chopping on that and other days, and Port could be on hand to help him load the sleigh. The rest of the time, he could be helping Ponto look for game around among the trees and bushes.
Between them they bagged some more rabbits, and once Port actually fired both barrels of his gun into a covey of partridges.
"Three of 'em?" said his uncle when he brought them in. "You'll be a sportsman yet, if you keep on in this way."
That was only three days after the Mink-lake picnic, and a proud boy was Port when Corry and Vosh came home. They were not even to have Saturday to themselves, for there was lost time to make up over their books.
Aunt Judith said she had never heard of such a thing when she was young; and Vosh Stebbins went out to the barn, and sat in his cutter for two hours, while he worked at his back lessons.
That Sunday they all went to meeting at Benton Village; and it seemed to Susie Hudson that all she heard about, except while the minister was preaching, was "the donation." She was not at all sure but what some of the ladies were thinking of it during the sermon, from the way they talked about it afterwards.
"Pen," she said in the sleigh on their way home, "tell me just what it is. I've heard about a donation often enough, but I never saw one."
"Why, don't you know?" exclaimed Pen in great surprise. "Why, a donation—it's a donation: that's all. It's a kind of a picnic at the minister's house. Everybody comes, and they all bring something. Only aunt Judith says some of 'em eat more'n they bring."
"Shall we all go?"
"Of course we will. You'll see. It's the nicest kind of a time."
Susie learned a great deal more during the next two days. Mrs. Farnham and aunt Judith seemed to be cooking for that "donation" as if there were likely to be a famine there, especially in the matter of mince-pies.
"Elder Evans is a real good man," remarked aunt Judith, "but he ain't any kind of a pervider. No, nor his wife ain't either. It won't do to let things go, and have 'em eaten out of house and home."
They were not likely to be, if the rest of the good people in Benton Valley sent over such stores of "goodies" as went to the minister's house, before the day appointed, from Deacon Farnham's.
"I've done my best," said Mrs. Stebbins to Vosh while she was putting her contribution into his cutter for transportation, "but Sarah Farnham and Judith can beat me. Their oven'll hold three times what mine will."
She went over early in the afternoon, to help Mrs. Evans; and she said to Vosh, "You needn't mind about my gittin' home. I'll come with Judith Farnham."
Perhaps that was why Vosh felt free to say to Susie Hudson, as she stood at the gate, telling him how nice his horse and cutter looked,—
"You'll have to go in the deacon's big sleigh with the rest, but you and I'll have this all to ourselves coming home."
That was kind of Vosh; and, if there was any thing Susie was fast learning to like, it was sleighing.
An old-fashioned, up-country donation-party cannot be altogether an evening affair. Some of the good people have far to come and go, and some of them have heavy loads to bring: so they generally begin to assemble before the middle of the afternoon.
Susie had seen the minister's house several times. It stood in the edge of the village, with an immense barn behind it; and it looked, for all the world, like another large barn, painted very white, with ever so many windows.
"Room," she thought, "for all the company that will come." And it was a good thing for them that she was so nearly right. That crowd would have been very uncomfortable in a small house.
When the sleigh-load from Deacon Farnham's got there, there was already a long line of teams hitched at the roadside in front of the house, beside all that had found shed and stable accommodations here and there.
As for Elder Evans's own barn, hay, straw, and all that sort of thing, formed a regular part of his annual donation. Load after load had come in and been stowed away, after a fashion that spoke well for either the elder's popularity or the goodness of the hay-crop.
There was no intention of letting the good man freeze to death, either, in a country where wood was to be had almost for the chopping. His wood-pile was a sight to see, a good hour before supper, and everybody knew there was more to come.
Corry explained it all to Porter.
"Yes, but he can't eat hay and wood. You say he doesn't get much money."
That was a little after they entered the house, and while Mrs. Farnham and Susie were talking with the elder's kind-faced little wife.
"Eat!" said Corry. "You come right out here with me."
The sitting-room, back of the parlor, was a large one; but it was nearly half full of tables of all sorts and sizes, and these were covered with a feast of such liberal abundance that Porter gave it up at once.
"Even this crowd can't finish all that in one evening, Corry. Will Elder Evans's folks live on what's left, for the rest of the year?"
"Come right along. Vosh is out here. He's one of the receiving committee."
"What's that?"
Corry led his cousin into the kitchen, and a funny-looking place it was. Something like a dozen busy ladies were trying to get at the cook-stove all at the same time; and half as many more were helping Vosh Stebbins "keep track of things," as they were handed in at the side-door, and stowed around in all directions.
"That makes four bushels of onions," Port heard him say, as he and Corry entered the room. "They're a healthy feed—but then!"
"One barrel of flour!" said a tall woman standing near him; "but then, there's ten bushels of wheat."
"Three bags of meal, and twenty sacks of corn; fifteen bushels of turnips, twenty of potatoes; one dressed pig; a side of beef; two dozen chickens."
"Sam Jones has just driven in with another load of wood."
"And Mr. Beans, the miller at Cobbleville, has sent more buckwheat flour'n they can use if they settle down to livin' on flapjacks."
"Five muskrat-skins."
"Two kags of butter."
"Hold on," said Vosh, "till I get down the groceries. Jemimy! What'll he do with so many tallow-dips? and there's more dried apples and doughnuts."
It was indeed a remarkable collection, and Porter began to understand how a "way up country" minister gets his supplies.
"Port," said Corry a little while after that, "let's go for our supper. We want to be ready for the fun."
"What'll that be?"
"Oh, you'll see."
Susie had been making a dreadful mistake at that very moment; for she had asked old Mrs. Jordan, the minister's mother-in-law, if they ever had any dancing at donation-parties. She told Port afterwards that the old lady looked pretty nearly scared to death, and that all she said was,—
"Dancing, child! Sakes alive!"
The house was swarming with young people as well as old, and it was of no manner of use for the leader of the Benton church choir to try and get them all to singing. A hymn or two went off well enough, and then they all listened pretty attentively while a quartet sang some glees. By that time, however, Vosh Stebbins had returned from the kitchen with his list all made up, and ready for the minister; and he said something to another young man, older than himself, but no taller, about "those charades." The music went to the wall, or somewhere else, in about a minute and a half.
Susie Hudson had never heard of one-half the games that followed after the charades. Some of these had been pretty good; but they were hardly noisy enough for the country boys and girls, and in due time were set aside like the music. There were forfeits of several kinds, anagrams, "kiss in the ring," and, after several other things had been proposed and tried, the parlor was given up to a royal game of blind-man's-buff.
It was grand fun for the young people; but, while it went on, there seemed to be every bit as hungry a crowd as ever around the tables in the sitting-room. As fast as any one came out, somebody else went in.
"Deacon Farnham," said Vosh in an undertone, "I've seen that oldest Bean girl eat three suppers already."
"It's a good thing there's plenty."
"Biggest kind of a donation. Sile Hathaway's just got here with two whole deer. Killed 'em on the mountains yesterday."
The deacon brightened up a little as he responded, "Deer, eh? Well, the elder won't starve, anyway."
Susie enjoyed herself exceedingly, but Pen told her,—
"It's real good of you to laugh right out the way you do. They ain't half so much afraid of you now as they were when you got here."
"Afraid of me, Pen?"
"Why, yes: you're a city girl. They ain't a bit afraid of me."
Vosh overheard that, and he added with a broad grin,—
"Fact, Susie. Half these fellows'd rather face a wildcat, any day, than a girl like you, right from the city."
Susie blushed and laughed, but it was a sort of explanation to her of some things she had noticed during the evening.
"Port," said Corry, "let's go out and take a look at Sile Hathaway's deer. One's a buck, and one's a doe, and they're prime."
"Is he a hunter?"
"Guess he is. He'd rather hunt than earn a living, any day. But he's about the best rifle-shot there is anywhere around here."
Port felt that such a man had a great claim to public respect, but he walked on without a word more until they were outside of the kitchen-door.
There on the snow lay the fat doe and the antlered buck, and it made Porter Hudson's very fingers tingle to look on them.
"Where'd you get 'em, Sile?" asked Corry.
"Not more'n a mile up this way from Mink Lake; jest whar the split comes in from towards the old loggin'-camp."
"How'd you get 'em to the village?"
"Well, of course I had my pony along. Allers do. Made a pole-drag right thar. I had two more deer to fetch in, and they wasn't more'n jest a good load for a drag."
He was a long, lanky, grizzled sort of man, with keen gray eyes, and a stoop in his shoulders.
"What's a pole-drag?" asked Port.
"Why," replied Corry, "all he does is to cut down two saplings, and make a kind of sled of 'em. It won't last long, but it'll do to haul deer home. I'll show you one to-morrow."
Port would have stood and looked at the deer longer if the weather out there had been warmer, but he half made up his mind to be a hunter while he was feeling of that buck's antlers. There was something magnetic about them that sent a hunting-fever all over him.
At last the pleasant gathering at the minister's house began to break up. Some sleigh-loads of those who had far to go had already set out for their homes, and it was well understood that not even the village people and near neighbors would stay later than ten o'clock. Very likely Elder Evans and his family would be tired enough to be pleased at once more having their home to themselves.
There came at the end a trifle of a surprise to Susie Hudson. The country-boys grew bolder as breaking-up time drew near; and she was compelled to inform no less than three of them in succession, when they offered her a ride home in their own cutters, that she was already supplied with company.
She did not happen to see Vosh Stebbins's triumphant grin at one of these young men when he was turning away to hunt for another girl, but she better understood why her thoughtful young neighbor had spoken to her beforehand.
She learned yet one thing more before she arrived at her uncle's house. That was, that there were two roads to it, and the one selected by Vosh for the return drive was several times longer than that by which Deacon Farnham had driven his big sleigh. The snowy track was everywhere in fine condition; the sorrel colt was in the best of spirits; the bells rang out clearly in a ceaseless jingle as the gay little turnout dashed along: it was altogether a capital winding-up for an evening of genuine "winter fun" in the country.
There was a great deal of merry talk in the larger sleigh all the way home. The older people, Mrs. Stebbins included, were in a good state of mind over the success of the party, and Pen had something to say about everybody she had seen.
"Corry," said Port as he nestled down among the buffalo-robes, "is there any thing up this way that pays better than a donation?"
"I don't know. Tell you what, though: they say we're to have a big spelling-match in about two weeks."
"What's that?"
"Why, it's this way: the Benton school-district takes in all the young folks around here. The Cobbleville school-district joins ours, only it's bigger, and there's more of 'em. We're to spell against 'em. It's tip-top fun; but I'm awfully afraid they'll spell us down. They did last year, and the year before."
"Can Susie and I go?"
"Of course you can. We've a right to count in anybody that's living in our district."
"I'm in, then. I live here."
"Will Susie come? She ought to be a good speller. The day isn't set yet. They were talking it over to-night. We'll have to go to Cobbleville: they've got the biggest meeting-house."
"Meeting-house? What for?"
"Why, to hold the match in. It'll be jam full, too, galleries and all. Everybody comes out to a spelling-match. You'll see."
Port had no end of questions to ask; but he felt that he was becoming a country-boy very fast, and that he already had a strong interest in upholding the honor of the Benton school-district.