Gran'ther Hill's Patridge

THE September sun shone with summer-like fervor in the little valley of Danvis ; not an afternoon of August had been hotter, or breathed a droughtier breath upon wilting forests and sered fields. Here and there among the dusky green of the woods, a tree nurtured by more sterile rootage than its neighbors was burning out its untimely ripeness in a blaze of red or yellow, from which the puffs of warm wind scattered sparks of color so intense that it seemed as if they might kindle the dry earth.

All nature was languid in the unseasonable heat and drought. The unrefreshing breeze blew in lazy puffs without even energy of direction, but listlessly trying this quarter and that, now bearing, now dropping, the light burden of a tree’s complaining, the rustle of the rolled corn leaves, the faint whimper of tired brooks, the petulant clamor of the crows, and the high, far-away scream of a hawk that, level with the hazy mountain peaks, wheeled in slow circles, a hot brown speck against the bronze sky.

The same wearied air pervaded the precincts of Joseph Hill’s home and the house itself. The hens lay panting with drooped wings under the scant shade of the currant bushes, whose shriveled remnant of fruit gave no promise of refreshing coolness; their half-grown progeny stalked aimlessly about the yard in indolent quest of nothing, while they grated out the discordant yelp which is neither peep nor cluck, and expresses nothing if it be not continual discontent; and the ducks waddled home, thirsty and unhappy, from the dried-up puddle.

The hollyhock stalks stood naked and forlorn among the drooping leaves, with only here and there a blossom too stunted to tempt a bumble-bee showing among the browning buttons of seed vessels. The morning-glory leaves hung limp upon their twisted vines, that had evidently blown their last purple trumpet to call the bees, clutching their supporting cords only with a dying grasp. All the house - side posies were withered, " chiny asters,” “ sweet-williams, 舡 and “ sturtiums ; ” nothing held up its head but the sturdy houseleeka — hens and chickens their mistress called them, and nursed them in their box in doors and out the year round, for their oddity and their repute for curing corns.

Even Gran’ther Hill, whom age might wither though it could not sap his vitality, showed little of his accustomed vigor, as he sat in the doorway with his bristly chin upon his staff, staring vaguely on the haze-bounded landscape, or at something beyond the filmy veil unseen by other and younger eyes, the past or the future. Battlefields of revolutionary days, lonely scouts in the great wilderness, secret missions in the service of the old Green Mountain Boys — or was he looking forward to the paths of the unknown, which he must presently tread ?

Whatever occupied his thoughts, it apparently was not what was said or done by those near him. In the same room was his son, who sat with his chair tilted against the wall; and a well-fed, self-satisfied man, who, slovenly clad, though his blue coat had not been long worn and its brass buttons were bright, sat across the table from Joseph, with a small hair trunk open before him, packed brimful of paper parcels and tin boxes. Joseph Hill’s eldest daughter, a tired, overgrown girl of twelve in an outgrown frock, moved wearily about the household labors that had fallen on her, and her younger brother sat disconsolately in one corner, nursing an aching tooth that kept him home from school. Their mother, who lay in the bedroom beyond, had been ill for weeks with an intermittent fever, but was now “ on the gain,”thanks to the treatment of the keen-eyed, blue-coated man with the hair trunk full of roots and herbs and their tinctures.

He was a disciple of Dr. Samuel Thompson, a self-taught mediciner, who, many years before, had brought upon himself the wrath, bitterer than his own concoctions, of the regular physicians of New England by his unauthorized practice and his denunciations of their methods. In time they enlarged and improved their pharmacopœia by availing themselves of his discoveries, but gave him no credit, and few know to what “ noted empiric ” they are indebted for them. Joseph was conservative, and would rather have employed the old regular physician of Danvis than this innovator, or perhaps both, and his father was bitter 舠agin In jin an’ ol’ woman ways o’ darkterin’ ; ” but this unlicensed practitioner had cured Maria’s mother of “ newrology.”and him she was set upon having, and Joseph consented, according to his usual custom when “ M’ri " insisted.

“Mis’ Hill,”said the doctor, looking over his spectacles and his trunk at Joseph, “ is sights better. The reg’lar course we ‘ve gi’n her, lobele ’metics, steamin’ an’ sofuth, has hove off the agur spells an’ the fever. All she wants naow is strenth’nin’, suthin’ tu give her an appetite ‘t eat, an’ suthin’ nourishin’ t’ eat. We ’re goin’ tu leave her these here spice bitters, tu take a small spoo’f’l steeped up in a teacup o’ hot water three times a day ; an’ you must git some popple bark, an’ steep up a big han’f’l on’t in a gallern o’ water, an’ hev her drink a ha’ pint on’t most any time when she ‘s dry, or a dozen times a day ; an’ it would be a good thing for her tu take a leetle pennyr’yal tea, say a teacupful three, four times a day, kinder ’tween times, an’ then eat nourishin’ victuals.”

Gran ‘ther Hill turned his head and glowered savagely at him, but uttered only a contemptuous snort.

舠 I do know, 舡 said Joseph, slowly easing the fore-legs of his chair to the floor and as slowly scratching his head, 舠 but what M’ri kin hold some victuals arter she ’s took all them steepin’s, but it don t seem ’s ‘ough she could much, that is tu say, not a turrible sight. Ye see, darkter, she hain’t a turrible big womern, that is, not so big as some. But mebby she kin. I d’ know.”

“Ye’ll draowned her wi’ yer cussed slops ! Gran’ther Hill growled, turning in his chair and thumping the floor with rapid blows of his cane. “ ’F you ‘d ha’ gi’n her some callymill an’ bled her ’n the fust on’t, she’d ha’ ben all right naow ! You’ve roasted her an’ biled her, an’ naow yer goin’ tu draowned her wi’ yer pailfuls o’ spice bitters an’ popple soup, an’ the Lord knows what tarnal slops ! ”

“ Callymill is pizon, an’ tew much bleedin’ is what kills hawgs,” said the doctor with calm emphasis.

“ Pizon is good when it’s took proper, Gran’ther Hill retorted, " an’ folks hain’t hawgs, not all on ’em hain’t. I wish’t Darkter Stun ’ould come along an’ gi’ me a dost o’ callymill an’ bleed me; I know it ‘ould make me feel better this tarnal roastin’ weather. It ’s a feller’s blood ’at heats him. I c’n feel mine a chuggin’ up agin the top o’ my skull every beat o’ my pult, an’ I wish I was red of a quart on’t! ”

“ You don’t look, Kepting Hill,” the doctor said, after a brief survey of the old man’s gaunt figure, “ as if you hed a grea’ deal o’ blood tu spare.”

“ I know ’t I’ve shed lots on’t for my country,” said Gran’ther Hill, “ but I’ve got ‘nough left tu fill up tew, three pepper darkters wi’ better ’n they’ve got! ”

“ No daoubt on t, kepting, no daoubt on ‘t,” the good-natured mediciner answered, “ but you don’t wanter waste it. Tew much good blood no man can’t hev, an’ aour remedies make bad blood good. You take some pepsissiway an’ put it in some ol’ Medford, an’ take a swaller three times a day, a good big swaller, kepting, an’ see what it "11 du for yer blood.”

“ That saounds sensibler ’n the water swash you was talkin’ on, an’ I begin tu think you know suthin’ arter all. Joseph, nex’ time you go over tu Hamner’s, you git me a quart, ‘n’ I’ll gether me some pepsissiway, an’ I’ll put in three, four sprigs, an’ try it.”

“ Reason is aour guide,” said the doctor, “ an’ aour remedies is what “Natur p’ints aout tu us. We don’t make no secret o’ what she tells us. Naow, these ’ere spice bitters is compaounded of several nat’ral plants, but the main ingrejencies is fever-bush an" bayberry. We hain’t no secrets ; all we ’re after is the trewth.”

“ Go t’ thunder! ” growled Gran’ther Hill. “ You ‘re arter yer livin’, jes’ as all on us is. Nothin’ on this livin’ airth riles me wus ’n hearin’ darkters an’ preachers gabbin’ ‘baout the raslin raound jes’ for the sake o’ duin’ other folks good, when they an’ ev’ybody knows it’s theirselves they ’re workin’ for. Who they tryin’ tu fool, — God amighty, or folks, or the’ ownselves ? ”

“ Sartinly, we’ve got tu live whilest we ’re raslin’ for the trewth, kepting. You drawed pay when you was fightin’ fer your kentry, an’ you fit a leetle better, proberbly, ’n you would for nothin’ but glory. Starvin’ fodder that is, for livin’ on in this world.. An’ that reminds me ‘t Mis’ Hill wants suthin’ nourishin’ t’ eat. The’ hain’t nothin’ better ’n patridge meat, which it is victuals an’ medicine to oncte, for a patridge is continerly a-feedin’ on a hulsome diet, fever-bush berries, wintergreen, pepsissiway, blackberries, popple-buds, and birch-buds, an’ I do’ know what all, of Nature’s pharmycopy, which is dissimerlated through the meat. You never knowed a man tu git sick eatin’ patridge, did ye, Kepting Hill, or you, Mr. Hill? and while waiting for a reply the doctor dived into the depths of his tall Leghorn hat for a red bandanna handkerchief, with which he vigorously mopped his face and blew a trumpet-blast of his nose.

“ Not me,” said Gran’ther Hill. “ I’ve lived on ’em for weeks when I was scaoutin’ ’long wi’ Peleg Sunderland, an’ the wolves had drove all the deer off.舡

“ Not tu aour haouse, we don’t,” said Joseph ; “ ner scasely git a taste on ’em sen’ father gin’ up huntin’. Wal, that is tu say, exceptin’ when Sam Lovel brings us a mess, or oncte when buh killed one with his bow-arrer, or mebby ketched it in a snare, I d’ know but he did. ”

舠I did kill him wi’ my bow-arrer,舡 protested the boy, forgetting his toothache in his desire to assert his sportsmanship ; “ an’ ol’ he one he was, bigger ’n a rhuster, a thumpin’ of a spreuce lawg I c’n show ye, an’ I sneaked up julluk gran’ther tells o’ Injins duin’ , an’ I knawked him stiffer ‘n a stake, ‘n’ I lit on him fore he " — Here a thump of the grandfather’s cane reminded the boy of the often-repeated maxim that such as he were to be seen, not heard, and muttering that he could “ show ’em the lawg,” he subsided into silence and the nursing of his aching jaw.

“ I s’pose you c’n shoot Mis’ Hill a patridge, can’t ye, Mr. Hill ? They say the woods is so full on ‘em ‘at they ‘re a steckin’ aout o’ the aidges.”

“ No, darkter,” said Joseph, going over to the stove hearth for his pipe and beginning a quest for his tobacco.'舠 I hain’t no knack for limitin’ patridge. They allers see me afore I du them, an’ by the time I git my gun up the’ hain’t nuthin’ left but a glimp an’ a noise, an’ afore I c’n git my mind made up tu shoot at them onsartainties, as Sam does, an’ father uster, both on ’em is gone. I thought I left my terbarker on the manteltree shelf. Oh, there it is on the winder stool.舡

“Wal,” said the doctor, bending a benign glance upon the boy, “ bub c’n git his mar a patridge with his bow arrer, I know, an’ if he will, I’ll pull his tooth so’t won’t ache again.”

“ I won’t tech tu try fer no sech pay; but ‘f they’d le’ me take gran’ther’s ol’ gun I’d git one. The’ ’s a hull litter on em stays up in the aidge o’ the parstur.”

“ You shoot a patridge wi’ my gun ? ” growled his grandfather, glowering upon him. “ Ye could n’t hol’ it tu arm’s len’th a secont, you hain’t staout ’nough tu pull the tricker ‘f you c’ld reach it, an’ if ye could ‘t ’ould kick ye int’ the middle o’ next week ! It ’s a man’s gun, that is,舡 pointing up to the long-barreled flint-lock that hung above the mantel, gray with all the dust which had fallen on it since the spring campaign against the crows, “ an’ it’s killed moose an’ wolves an’ bear an’ Injins an l ories an’ Hessians an’ Britishers, an’ it c’ld tell who hel’ it when it killed ’em. He hain’t dead yit; an’ ’f ye want a patlidge, he c’n git ye one, which his name is Josier Hill. What ye say ’baout patridge is sensibler ’n what ye say ’baout darkterin’. an’ Marier’s goin’ tu hev one. I ‘d be willin’ fer you tu pick aout my victuals, but I’d ruther hev an’ ol’fashioned reg’lar larnt physican darkter du my darkterin’.”

“ Reg’lar licensed pizoners, they be, ign antly killin’ folks under kiver of the die-plomies,” Dr. Wead protested in a discreetly low voice; then in a louder tone, “ seem ’s ’ongh you was ruther along in years tu go huntin’, kepting. Better start aout some o’ the young fellers, that ’ere Lovel, fer instance. They say he’s a marster hand at huntin’.”

“ If ever I got sick o’ anythin’,” said the old man, bending his bushy brows in a savage frown and thumping the floor with his staff, “ it ’s everlastin’ly hearin’ tell o’ that ‘ere Sam Lovel’s huntin’ !

Ye ‘d think, tu hear ’em talk, ‘at me an’ Peleg Sunderland wa’n’t never nowheres ‘long side o’ him, — him ‘t was brung up on patridge an’ foxes tu be sot up ‘longside o’ men ’t was raised when the’ was painters an’ Injins in the woods thicker ‘n red squirrels be naow! I s’pose he ken shoot tol’able well wi’ his cannern fer nowerdays, but I git almighty sick o’ hearin’ tell on’t. Joseph here s allers braggin’ secont han’ o’ what Sam Lovel’s done, an’ Joseph do’ know one eend of a gun f’m t’ other. Took arter his mother, ’n’ she wa’ no hunter. Bub, here, ac’s more like, an’

‘ If he ‘d ben borned fifty year ago, when the’ was suthin’ tu hunt, he ‘d ha’ ben a hunter.舡 Even such faint praise banished for a moment the torture of the aching tooth, as the boy cast longing looks up at the ancient gun, whose brass mountings were brighter and more precious to his eyes than burnished gold.

舠 ‘m a-goin’ tu git Marier a patridge,” the old man went on. “ Good minter go right off. ‘F I don’t, I will in the mornin’; I’ve heard a gun every oncte in a while all the art’noon. There ’t goes agin,” as a flat report came faint and echoless through the sultry air from the lower slope of the mountain side. “He hain’t killin’ nothin’, I know by the way his gun saounds, but he ‘ll scare everything aout’n the woods er over the maountain. Guess I ‘d better go right off an’ git ahead on him.”

“ Better wait till the cool o’ the mornin’, father. They ‘ll all git settled back in the’ haunts by then,” Joseph suggested ; and then in a loud whisper to the doctor, “ He ‘ll fergit all ’baout it by then ! ”

“ Wal, mebby, I ’ll see,” said his father, settling back uneasily in his armchair, and again fixing his senile stare on the outer world.

舠Naow then,舡 said Dr. Wead in a more cheerful tone than the proposal warranted, “ naow, then bub, ’f you seddaown in the door an’ brace yer back agin one post an’ yer feet agin t’ other, I ’ll red ye o’ that ’ere pesky tooth in a jiffy.舡

“ I do’ wanter hev it pulled ! ” the boy whimpered. “ It don’t ache a mite naow! 舠

“It’s unly foolin’ on ye, bub,” said the doctor. “ That ’s a trick the pesky things is allers up tu. I won’t hurt ye more ’n a minute, an’ then you ‘ll be tu play an’ practicin’ wi’ yer bow-arrer fer to shoot yer mar a patridge. 舡

“ Why, yes, Josie,” urged his father, “ jest seddaown an’ hev her aout julluk a man, an’ I ’ll git ye — le’ me see, why, I ’ll git ye a jew-sharp nex’ time I go t’ the store.”

“ Can’t play no jew-sharp when I hain’t got no teeth, more ‘n gran’ther can,” the boy half sobbed.

“ Could n’t ye give him suthin’ tu kinder ease it up fer a spell?” Joseph asked, after puzzling his brains for a more tempting offer. “ ‘F his mother was raound he c’ld stan’ it better.”

The doctor shook his head. “ Nothin’ but cold iron ’ll stop it.”

“ It ’ll hurt like Sam Hill! ” howled poor little Josiah.

“ Look a-here, bub,” said his grandfather turning his chair again to face the room. “ It hain’t a-goin’ tu be said ’at a boy ’at wants tu go huntin’ wi’ a gun, an’ which he’s named arter his gran’ther that fit tu Hubbar’ton an’ Bennin’ton, to say nuthin’ o’ takin’ Ticonderogue, is a-goin’ tu raise a rumpus ’baout hevin’ a mis’able leetle tooth pulled aout. If ye don’t come right stret here an’ seddaown in the door an’ open yer maouth an’ shet yer head, I ‘ll take ye up tu the Leegislatur’ this fall, right afore them tew brass cannern t’ we took f’m the Hessians tu Bennin’ton, an’ hev yer name changed, the hull on t; Josier shall be Nosier, an’ Hill shall be Holler, ’cause ye’ll be so low daown, an’ ’cause ye ‘ll holler for havin’ a tooth pulled. An’ if ye seddaown like a man an’ say nothin’, I ‘ll let ye shoot my gun tu a mark, ’f it kicks ye furder ’n ye shoot! There ! ”

The boy looked a moment into the relaxed sternness of his grandfather’s face, and then, his own pale but resolute, walked over and took the prescribed position on the threshold.

“ Git aout yer cant-hook, darkter, whilst his grit ’s up,” said Gran’ther Hill, while Joseph retreated to the bedside of his wife, whither, with an appalled look dispossessing the wearied expression of her face, his daughter accompanied him.

The doctor, taking the terrible turnkey from his trunk, bestrode the boy, whose head he grasped between his knees, and in one brief but awful moment wrenched out the tooth and a suppressed groan.

舠 You’ll make a hunter an’ a sojer,” said the doctor. “ You stood it like a major, an’ I’m goin’ tu wrop up that tooth in a piece o’ paper for ye t’ show folks.”

The old man gave his grandson a gentle punch in the ribs with his cane to express his approval. “ Ded n’t hurt ye much naow, did it, bub ? ”

“ The hole aches wus ’n the darned tooth did,” said Josiah the younger. “ When ye gointer let me shoot yer gun, gran’ther ? ”

“T’morrer, when I git back f’m huntin’,” his grandsire promptly responded. “Say, bub, is that Mis’ Purin’t’n comin’ up the rhud ? Yes? Well, then. I’m goin’ huntin’ right naow ’f she ’s comin’ here, ’n I ‘ll bate she be.” Arising with all the speed that his stiff joints could compass, he took down his gun, drew the iron ramrod and dropped it into the barrel, then measured the protruding end with his fingers, returned the rod to its pipes, threw the long barrel into the hollow of his arm, and critically examined flint and priming, before his son had come forth from the bedroom.

“ Why, father, ye ’d better not go this arternoon, you ‘ll git yer blood all het up ! ” Joseph expostulated.

“ Your darkter says I hain’t got no blood,” his father answered, reaching up for the big powder-horn, the buckskin shot-pouch, and a wisp of tow for wadding, while he whispered loudly, “That ‘ere Purin’t’n womern ’s a-comin’, ’n’ I ’d ruther git het an’ sunstruck ‘n tu hear her gab. Wonder Purin’t’n never took tu huntin’.”

“ She won’t stay long, not so turrible long, I don’t scasely b’lieve she will, an’ you c’n go an’ lay daown in yer room,” urged Joseph ; and the doctor also made some attempt to dissuade the old man from going abroad, though it was noticeable that he was hurriedly packing the little hair trunk and hastily preparing for his own departure.

“ Don’t you go a-huntin’ no patridge for me,” plead Maria’s feeble voice from the bedroom. “ A chicken ’ll du jest as well.”

“ I tell ye you ’re a-goin’ tu hev a patridge, an’ I ‘m goin’ tu git it! ” the veteran protested.

“Wal,舡 said Joseph, making search for his hat in all places but under his chair, where it was, “ef you will go ag’in’ all reason, I ’ll go ‘long with ye, erless I ‘11 hev buh go; er mebbe we ’ll both on us go, tu kerry your game, ye know, an’ yer gun, an’ sech, an’ mek it kinder comf’table fer ye.”

“ When I go huntin’ I don’t go ’t the head of a army, wi’ a fife an’ drum a-playin’,” cried Gran’ther Hill at the top of his cracked and whistling voice, “nor no lummoxes, an’ no bubs a-taggin’ tu my heels, a-scarin’ all the game outen sight an’ hearin’ wi’ the’ crackin’, an’ snappin’, an’ sloshin’, an’ gabbin’! D ‘ye think I ’m a five-year-ol’ boy ’t can’t go nowheres by hisself ? You stay’t hum an’ tend t’ your own business, an’ I ‘ll tend tu mine ! ”

Lowering the muzzle of his gun to clear the lintel of the door, he went out as Mrs. Purington entered. Dropping heavily into the nearest chair and puffing out a brief salutation, she cast back her green gingham sun-bonnet, and began fanning her hot face with her checked apron held by its nether corners.

“ It is tew orfle hot tu stir aou’ door, but I thought I mus’ come an’ chirk up Mis Hill a leetle mite, an’ I tol’ him I would come if it melted me. I declare tu goodness I b’lieve it hes ! Whew! Who ever see sech weather for the time o’ year ? Hain’t your caows s’runk the’ milk orfle? An’ aour cistern ’s mos’ dry, an the spring hain’t never ben so low sen’ he c’n remember. I ‘d know what’s goin’ tu be become on us all ‘f we don’t git shaowers. It’s ‘nough tu make well folks sick an’ tu kill sick folks, an’ I p’smne tu say it will kill Mis’ Hill. Haow is she anyway ?舡 leaning forward to peer into the bedroom, her fat hands, still holding the apron corners, resting on her short lap. “ Gittin wus an’ wus, I s’pose?” then, with a sudden fear, “’T hain’t nothin’ ketehin’ I hope,— none o’ these ketchin’ fevers ? ”

“ No,” Joseph assured her. “ Intumittens, or some sech name, the darkter calls it. Suthin like fev’ ‘n’ aig; kinder wus ’n that, an’ then ag’in, not so bad,” he explained.

Her fears of infection set at rest, Mrs. Purington drew her chair to the bedroom door and set herself to comforting the sick woman.

“Wal, Marier, you du look peakeder ’n what I expected, an’ it’s a massy’t I come when I did, or I might not ha’ seen you alive. Mis’ Tarbell, his brother’s wife’s sister, was took jest the same way ’long in hayin’, an’ it hove her intu quick consumpshern, an’ she died ‘fore the graound froze up, which was some consolashern, ’cause ‘t wa’n’t no sech work diggin’ the grave as’t ’ould ha’ ben later. I du hope you feel prepared for the wust, Marier, I du.”

“ Ruby,” said Mrs. Hill, as her eye caught the scared face of her daughter, “ I wish’t you’d gwaout an’ see ‘f you can’t find that speckled hen’s nest. No, Mis’ Purin’t’n, I hain’t prepared for no wust. I’ve hed that, an’ I’m better. All I want naow is some stren’th tu be up an’ a-doin’ Poor Ruby!” as her eyes anxiously followed the girl’s wearied footsteps. “It’s ben tough on her, an’ she’s putty nigh tuckered aout.舡

The scared and tired girl got little comfort, except in escaping from the alarming and wearisome gabble of the visitor, in her listless, rambling search for the nest of the Dominique among the withered currant bushes and the rampant weeds, that in spite of the drought still flourished in the fence-corners, to the delight of the yellow birds, who, too busy to sing, if singing-days were not over, gathered the seeds of pig-weed and red-root. Nor was there more comfort in moping by her mother’s posybed, whose neglected plants looked as tired as herself.

“That’s allers the way wi’ folks ’at’s got consumpshern,” continued Mrs. Purington, “ a-thinkin’ they ’re better when they ’re growin’ wus — allers. An’ that pepper an’ steam darkter, — I met him as I was a-comin’ int’ the do’yard, — a mis’able cretur tu look at. They say he jest biles folkses’ skins off, an’ turns ’em inside aout wi’ his lobele ’metics. Ef I wa’n’t so beat abut wi’ the heat, I ’d turn tu an’ help Ruby fix up things, for it does look dreffle run daown’t the heel in the kitchin, — hain’t ben int’ the square room; but it does seem as if’t was all I c’ld du jest tu set here an’ comfort ye all I ken. I will fix yer piller,” and she set to beating the pillow close to the convalescent’s ears, and twitching it to and fro under her head. “ I’d ha’ sent up sis tu help Ruby, but she’s daown tu Huldy’s, an’ they ‘re fixin’ up fer uncle ’Lisher Peggs an’ aunt Jerushy, which they ’re expectin’ on ’em back from the West nex’ canal-boat ’at comes. A turrible senseless piece o’ business all raound ; but they will hev it the’ own way, — Huldy an’ Sam.” And so she went on with her torturing gabble, which the sick woman was thankful only tired, but did not frighten her.

Meanwhile Gran’ther Hill was hobbling across the fields toward the woods, followed by the longing eyes of his grandson. Dr. Wead, watching the bent figure from the height of his sulky-seat, rocking on its leathern thorough-braces, remarked to himself, " A stronery tough ol’ critter for a man ’at’s ben pizened wi’ callymill fer the Lord knows haow many year, an’ as contrairy as he is ol’ an’ tough.”

He was a pathetic old figure to look upon as, supporting his stiffened legs with his staff, and trailing his long gun with the unforgotten handiness acquired in years so far past that they were like a dream, he picked his slow way across the shrunken brook and into the skirt of the forest. The woods were very still, scarcely stirred by the light puffs of the breeze; the birds, their summer songs forgotten, so silent, and the feeble current of the brook babbling so faintly, that the continuous murmur of the bees among the woodside asters was the sound most audible, save when a locust shrilled its prolonged, monotonous cry that presently sank with an exhausted fall to the droning undertone of the bees.

The aged hunter made his way through the bordering thickets and over the dry matting of old leaves with a stealthier tread than many a younger man might have, and scanned carefully with slow, dulled gaze, the shaded depths of lowbranched young evergreens, sapling poplars and birches, and thorny tangles of blackberry briers.

Suddenly fell on his ears the noise of scurrying feet among the dry leaves, and the warning “ wish, quit, kr-r-r quit! quit! ” of a grouse. Dropping his staff and bringing his cocked piece to a ready, he searched the thicket with eager eyes and presently discovered an alert dusky form skulking among the shadows. The long gun was aimed with almost the celerity if not with the precision of its ancient use in the boasted days when its owner scouted and hunted with doughty Peleg Sunderland. The trigger was pulled, the flint flashed out a shower of sparks, and the old gun bellowed and kicked in a way worthy of its renown, and mowed a narrow swath through the stems of saplings and briers. The booming report, so different from the flat discharges which at irregular intervals during the afternoon had cracked through the sultry air, came to young Josiah’s ears and almost shook him from his seat on the rail fence with the thrill of delight it sent through him.

Rushing into the house, he loudly proclaimed, “ Gran’ther’s fired. Yes, sir! I heard him ! ” and in the next breath, “ I’m goin’ t’ see what he’s got! ”

“ Don’t you dast tu ! ” his father said with unwonted decision. “ ’F he hain’t killed nothin’, an’ ’t ain’t no ways likely ’t he hes, though the’s no tellin’ but what he hes, he ’ll be madder ‘n tew settin’ hens. Don’t ye dast tu go, bub ! ”

“ Jest’s like’s not his gun hes busted, er gone off ’t wrong eend, er suthin’, an’ killed him,” said Mrs. Purington. “ Guns is dreffle dan’g’ous things. It’s ’nough tu dry up a feller’s blood wi’ col’ chills tu hear father Purin’t’n when he was alive, an’ uncle ’Lisher, tell o’ the folks ’at got killed by ’em tu Plattsburgh fight, which they was both there. Don’t ye go nigh, Bub Hill. ’T ’ould scare ye t’ death tu see your gran’ther a-lyin’ in his gore.”

“Hed n’t you better go an’see, Joseph ? ” said Maria anxiously.

“ Sho ! ” said her husband. “ Father could n’t shoot hisself wi’ the ol’ gun erless he got someb’dy tu help him. It’s longer ‘n a brook, an’ it never busts, leastways it never did’s I knows on. Ketch me a-goin’ nigh him ’f he ’s missed. He ’ll make things gee, a-blamin’ it onter all creation but hisself.”

Thus admonished, the boy went back to his perch on the top rail, to content himself with impatient watching for his grandsire’s return.

It was well he did not seek him, for he would have found him then in his most peppery mood. Quicker than the echo of the discharge had come a rapid beat of wings and a brief scurry among the dead leaves. The old man stooped low and peered beneath the slowly lifting smoke, almost confident that he would see his victim fluttering out its last breath in or near the ragged path of the charge. But there was nothing to be seen astir but a sapling slowly bending to its fall from its half - severed stem, a sere leaf wavering to earth, and the eddying haze of rising smoke. Ah ! the bird was stone dead, and lying there somewhere, waiting to be picked up without casting one reproving glance upon his slayer from his glazing eyes. Gran’ther Hill was glad of that, for like all old hunters he had grown tender-hearted toward his prey.

First he reloaded his gun, measuring powder and shot in his palm with scrupulous care in spite of his haste to go forward, and then stooping low, groped his way into the thicket. Scanning the ground foot by foot, often misled this way and that by some semblance of what he was in quest of, objects that upon poking with his staff proved but gray and russet stumps or clots of old leaves, he crept on far beyond the range of his gun, growing less hopeful with each more wearied step. Then he retraced his course, zigzagging across it, peering into hollow logs and probing brush heaps with his staff, then took his bearings anew from the place where he had shot, and went over the ground again and again, rewarded only by finding one mottled tail-feather, which he thrust in his hat to disprove a total miss, and grew more rebellious against fate with every unsuccessful attempt to find his bird, winch, in fact, sat unscathed amid the branches of a fir, recovering from the terror of the sudden storm of lead that had so lately hurtled past it.

舠What tarnal dodunk loaded that ’ere gun, I wonder ? ” he growled, glaring savagely into space. “ Did n’t put no wad top o’ the paowder, I ’ll bate, er the shot was tu big er tu small er suthin’! Er’t was some of that cussed paowder o’ Chapin’s ; ’t won’t burn no quicker ’n green popple sawdust, an’ the patridge seen the flash an’ dodged ! But I hit him, I know I did ! I never missed a settin’ shot in my life, an’ he lays right here clus tu deader ‘n hay, only I can’t see him! Blast my darned eyes, a-failin’ on me jes’ naow, arter eighty-six, goin’ on eightyseben year ! I wish’t I hed my specs; I wish ‘t I let Joseph’s boy come ’long wi’ me, he’s sharper eyed ’n a lynk ; he ’d ha’ faound him. I ‘ll fetch him here an’ hev him look, an’ ef he don’t find him I ‘ll skin him. ’F I thought’t was you ’t made me miss him,” shaking his gun till the ramrod rattled in its pipes and wooden casing, “ye ol’ wore aout goo’-fornothin’ iron hole, I ’d wallupse ye raound a tree, darn ye ! But I did n’t miss him, he ’s lyin’ dead clus tu ’mongst some o’ these cussed rhuts an’ bresh. Darn yer cussed hidin’ tricks ! ” addressing the trees and shaking his staff at them, " can ‘t ye let an ol’ man ’at fit fer ye when you wa’n’t knee-high tu a tud-stool hev one leetle, nasty, mis’able patridge fer his sick darter ? Darn ye, I wish ‘t ye ‘ould all burn up an’ roast yer cussed patridges inside on ye ! ”

For answer came a rustle of feet suddenly grown careless where they trod, and then appeared through the parted branches the tall form and good-natured face of Sam Lovel. The old man stared half-angrily, half-ashamed, at the apparition.

“ Why, Gran’ther Hill, you a-huntin’ this hot day ? ” Sam asked.

“ Yis, 舠I be,” the old man answered testily. X do’ know but I got jes’ ’s good right tu go a-huntin’ hot days as other folks.”

“Sartainly, gran’ther, sartainly; but I did n’t s’pose the’ was nob’dy else but me sech a fool as tu go huntin’ sech weather. Ye know some on ’em calls ev’ eybody fools ’at goes huntin’ any time. Wal, what luck be ye hevin’ ? ”

“ The cussedest luck I ever see. I come tu git a patridge fer Joseph’s wife ’at’s sick, an’ I shot one fust thing, an’ I can’t find the darned thing, an’ it hain’t tew rods off f’m where we be.”

“ Wing broke, an’ hid? ”

“ No, sir, killed deader ’n hay, jest one kerflummux an’ still; an’ I can ‘t find it nowheres, nothin’ but this tail feather.”

This Sam examined, but did not suggest the patent fact that it was not cut out by a shot, nor the possibility of a miss. “Wal, naow, mebby I c’n help ye find him ; four eyes is better ’n tew sometimes. I s’pose you hain’t shot a patridge afore for a good spell, an’ you would n’t ha’ ben tryin’ naow only tu get one for M’ri. Wal, le’s see, you sarch in there, an’ I ’ll try up this way. He’s flummuxed inter some bresh heap er holler, I bate ye. An’ they look julluk the dead leaves ‘f they don ‘t lay belly up, anyway.”

Searching intently in one direction while the old man pottered in another, Sam presently shouted gleefully, “ Here he is, gran’ther ! Deader ’n a mallet, lyin’ in a bresh heap ’t you’ve trod onter! You most took his head off an’ knocked him gally west. It was jest the stren’th o’ the shot ’at hove him here ! ” and Sam reappeared, holding a rather rumpled partridge, whose head dangled from the ruffed neck by a film of skin.

The old man, more pleased than a child with a coveted toy, took the bird and smoothed its rumpled feathers, so absorbed that he did not notice the softened thud, mixed with the careless scuff of Sam’s foot, of something that fell between them.

“ Wal, I ‘ll be darned! ” Sam ejaculated in suppressed surprise, 舠ef here ain’t another ’at we ’re most treadin’ onter! ” and stooping, he picked up another partridge, that with its life had almost lost its head.

“ Tew tu one shot, by the gret horn spoon ! Wal, gran’ther, you beat the hull caboodle! 舡 and he patted the veteran’s shoulder tenderly. 舠I never done that but oncte, an I’ve bragged on ‘t ever sence.”

Gran’ther Hill’s blank stare of astonishment relaxed into a toothless grin of supreme delight, and his bleared eyes were dim with unaccustomed moisture.

“ I knowed the’ was one a-lyin’ here somewheres, but I never ’spected the’ was tew,” he said, his voice trembling with the swelling and throbbing pride of his heart. “ Young eyes is sharper ‘n ol’ ones, an’ I ‘m a thaousan’ times obleeged tu ye fer findin’ my patridges.

I’d jest abaout gi’n up, an’ was goin’ hum tu git Joseph’s boy tu help me find the one ’t I knowed I killed ; he’s got eyes julluk a lynk, an’ ould ha’ made a hunter ’f he’d ben borned soon ’nough, when the’ wus suthin’ wuth huntin’. These ’ere ’ll jest set Marier right up, an’ fore they ’re gone, I ‘ll git her another. They thought I could n’t git nary one, but ’t ain’t nothin’ tu kill a patridge when ye know haow ; ” and all the while he was slowly turning the birds before his admiring eyes.

“ Naow ’f I c’n find me some lutherwood, I ‘ll tie them patridge laigs tugether an’ sling ’em crost my gun an’ g’ hum. You don’t see some handy, du ye ? ”

Yes, Sam saw a sprawling moosewood or wicopy close at hand, and presently fitted the old man out with a thong of its tough bark, wherewith the birds were tied together, ready for slinging on the gun barrel.

“ ’T ain’t every day ‘t ye see a man goin’ huntin’ wi’ a gun in one hand an’ a cane in t’ other,” Gran’ther Hill chuckled ; “ but the ol’ gun an’ me hain ‘t forgot aour ol’ tricks ‘f we du go wi’ a cane. It’s kinder cur’ous ‘t I hit ’em both in the neck an’ nowheres else ‘cept knockin’ aout one tail feather, an’ there it is, a-missin’ ; ” but he did not notice that the feather in his hat did not correspond in length or markings with those in the tail of the bird that he was inspecting.

“ The ol’ gun kerries turrible clus.”Sam exclaimed, “ an jes one stray shot hit the tail—glanced on a twig like’s not.”

“ An’ hain’t you killed nary one ? the old man asked, only now noticing that Sam carried no game in sight. “ I swan I ’d ort tu divide wi’ ye,” making a feeble motion toward untying one of his birds.

舠Wal, yes, I got tew, three in here,” patting the pocket of his striped woolen frock.

“ Wal,” the old man said, slipping the birds on to his gun and shouldering it, “ I s’pose I mus’ be a-moggin’. Do’ know haow I ’m goin’ tu make up ter ye for findin’ my patridge, erless I go ‘long wi’ ye some day an’ show ye haow tu hunt patridge.”

“ That ‘ll jest du it,” said Sam heartily. “ Some cool day, t’ rights, ‘fore they git wild wi’ the fallin’ leaves, we ‘ll go. I want tu see ye kill tew ’t a shot.”

And so they parted, each going his way, the young man skirting the woods, the old man homeward, picking his way across Stony Brook with a lighter step and a lighter heart than he had come with. He minded nothing of the hot, droughty weather; no day could have seemed finer than this in its decline, its warm air laden with the odor of the firs, and the “ cheop ” of the crickets beginning to thrill through it, while the purple of the asters grew darker in the blurred, lengthening shadows. As he crossed the pasture he began to whistle, toothlessly, “We’re marching onward toward Quebec,” and his rheumatic footsteps fell to the time of the old martial air.

Then he saw his grandson running to meet him.

“ Oh, gran’ther! ” cried the boy, breathlessly, as he caught a glimpse of the old man’s swinging burden, “ye got one, did n’t ye ? ” and then as he walked puffing and eager-eyed alongside, 舠 Tew on ’em! Oh, my sakes, tew ! hearn ye shoot but oncte. You never killed ’em both tu one shot, gran’ther? ” “ Sho, bub, that hain’t nothin’ for a man ‘at onderstan’s it,” said his grandfather lightly.

“ Oh, gran’ther! you c’n jest beat ‘em all, you can. Say, gran’ther, le’ me kerry ’em, won’t ye ? Gran’ther, say ? ” the boy pleaded.

“ Jullook a-here, bub,” said the old man, sinking his voice to a husky undertone, “ you le’ me kerry ’em, an’ I ‘ll let ye shoot the gun tu a mark right naow ! Hey ? ”

“ Oh, my sakes ! Will ye, naow, t’-night ? ”

“Yes, sir, I will. You go an’ set that ’ere busted cap agin the fence, ten rod off, an’ come back here an’ rest crost this ‘ere stump an’ let ’er hev ! ” Away the boy ran, never minding a stubbed toe or a heelful of thistles that waylaid his course, and setting the broken fence-cap against a rail came panting back.

“Git ye breath fust,” Gran’ther Hill said, as the boy reached eagerly for the gun, which the old man took slowly from his shoulder, depressing the muzzle till the partridges slipped to the ground. “Ye could n’t hit a barn-door ten rod off whilst ye ‘re a-puffin’ that way. Naow,舡 as the boy’s breathing became regular through hard restraint, and he gave the gun into his hands, “p’int below the mark, an’ raise her up slow, an’ when ye git aimed atween the tew holes, onhitch ! ”

Kneeling and resting the long barrel across the stump, the boy slowly elevated the muzzle till it hid the lower auger hole, and then pulled with might and main, shutting both eyes in expectation of the flash and recoil, but neither came.

舠 I can ‘t pull her off,” he whined in half-tearful disappointment.

“ Ye can ‘t pull her off when she hain’t on’y half cocked, ye gump! ” said the old man impatiently, and reaching out he pulled the heavy hammer to full cock. “ There naow, when ye pull the tricker, I guess ye ‘ll hear from her ! ”

Again the boy essayed, pulled manfully at just the right moment, and there was a shower of sparks, a blinding flash of ignited priming, a deafening roar, and with it a kick that tumbled the young marksman on to his haunches.

“ You hit it!舡 the old man cried, “ I seen the splinters fly ! Naow run over ‘n’ fetch the cap here.”

The be boy made all haste to get upon his feet, and ran wildly over to the fence, rubbing, as he ran, his shoulder that ached with a more universal pang than his tooth had done. But it was a delightful pain, and borne with a triumphant smile when he saw the weatherworn surface of the wood brightened with fresh splinters and punctured with a half dozen dark holes, and as many half-embedded shot staring at him as if in astonishment at his skill.

“ Ye done well, bub, so ye did! ” said his grandfather, when the target was brought to him and inspected. “ She scattered more ’n she did when I shot the patridge, but I s’pose I got in a leetle tew much paowder; but you done almighty well.”

So they went home, the one as proud as the other, the old man with his birds, the boy with his target, he running ahead to proclaim the wonderful achievements of the twain. It was a pleasure added to the old man’s triumph, another reward of his afternoon’s outing, to see the departing form of Mrs. Purington waddling homeward along the highway.

The two were welcomed with all the honors they could desire, even Mrs. Hill came forth from her bed-room to view the trophies, and the youngsters home from school were dumb with admiration of the feats of their grandfather and brother. Gran’ther Hill recounted all the details of his afternoon’s adventure, and ended by saying, —

“ I don’t b’lieve I’d ha’ faound one of ’em ‘f ’t had n’t ben for that ’ere longlaiged Sam Lovel; ” and Joseph, picking the birds, unmarked but by the bullet holes in their necks, remarked with a twinkle in his eyes that no one saw, —

“ I don’t scacely b’lieve ye would, father; don’t seem’s ’oughh ye would.”

Rowland E. Robinson.