"GEORGE, go tie old 'Spring,' she'll be in the woods in an hour; she's playin' round the pup and leadin' him by the ear, tryin' now to git him to follow," said old Pat Bowman, our hunter host, a long, crane-like biped, standing six feet two inches in his boots; long, grizzly gray beard under his jaw-bones; hair hanging around his coat collar, combed sleek and flat on his head; his clothing of home spun jean, and his trowsers inside of a luge pair of cow-leather boots; but with all of his homilies as kind hearted a creature and as good liver as ever enjoyed the world. Sure enough, "Spring," a nimble, beautiful, blue ticked deer-hound, was capering and fondling with her apparently over-grown, awkward-looking black-and-tan pup, and in dog language beseeching him to the hunt.

      "Boys," said Pat, "we'll have a right day to hunt to-morrow. Look how the moon shines. Deer will roam 'round all night."

      This was in the middle of the month of October. We were lounging around the doors after supper, commenting on the hounds. It was late twilight; a full grown moon was Swinging gracefully through a clear, blue sky, rendering nearly as light as noonday the bottoms which gather in prairie-like profusion around the noiseless waters of Clinch, forming the boasted "Richlands." And well may the possessors of this choice land boast! On the surface of the mountains which encircle it stand boundless forests of gigantic timber, and these are the haunts of deer and other game. Beneath the surface of those mountains there is coal enough to give sunnier heat to New York city for a century. The soil of its lowlands is bottomless. The game birds revel in the "fruitful fells." Clinch has its fish and water fowl. It has all a generous soil and climate could have.

      Old Pat, who through life had, in the proper season, been a hard worker and an excellent farmer, had withal been an improvident wretch — had always been a tenant of the best farmers and graziers; loved hounds and horses; eat all he made except what he drank — and paid all his honest debts.

      Gathered around the free and easy board of this jolly hunter was this group of half a dozen young men — cheerful to steal, after a long summer's work, a few days for a "deer drive." 'This group was of the village businessman and country farmer; as congenial, however, as if their shops adjoined, and were all to the "manor-born," save one whose frosty accent and curt tones proclaimed him the birth of a colder climate; but he had no frosty soul, as no sportsman ever has. Pat could see from this "brogue," as he called it, that a "furiner" was in his house.

      "What did you say your name was, Mister," said Pat, "and where yer frum?"

      "My name is Herbert Kendall, Mr. Bowman, and my residence is on the bank of Geneva Lake, Wisconsin."

      "Then yer a Yankee, haint ye?" said Pat.

      "Well, I believe you call all Northern men Yankees, don't you, Bowman? I'm a Northwestern man."

      "Come out like a man and say you are a Yankee," said Pat; "and may be you are one of these darned revenues."

      "I can't fancy what you mean by revenues, Mr. Bowman," said Kendall, evidently perplexed and looking at us for help.

      "Why said Pat. "It mean these pestiverous cusses who jerk us up for sellin' a a hand of tobaccer for a day's work, or a poor devil for moonshinin' it and sellin' a drink of corn whisky, and take him slap to the United States Court and let him play checkers with his nose till his poor brats die in rags. If you are this sort of a man," cried Pat, excitedly, "git away from my ——"

      "Stop, Pat," interrupted Melton. "Keep cool now. We promise you Mr. Kendall is a perfect gentleman, and loves to hunt as well as you, has heard a great deal about you and, in fact, came here to pay you a visit."

      "I think I understand Mr. Bowman now," said Kendall. "I say to him I am no Federal official nor detective. I have a pleasant home and plenty. True, I was born in Vermont."

      "No, Pat," said Melton, "there is a vast deal of difference between a Northern gentleman who comes among us and the 'revenues,' as you call them."

      "Well, if there haint, cuss the Northern gentlemen," said Pat. "You hearn of them," continued he, "meetin' poor Bill Smith drunk on the road the other day, and says to him, 'My old feller, gim me a drink, I'm orfal dry;' and poor, kind-hearted Bill give him a snort, and the revenue says, 'Stranger, yer too poor to give this to me, here's a quarter,' and flung it to him, and off he goes and takes out a warrant agin Bill, and he is now in jail, and he has eleven children."

      "Well, Pat," said Melton, "I tell you, Mr. Kendall is not one of these people, but I can tell you what he was. He was a good Yankee soldier. How do you like that?"

      "Was you in fact a blue belly, Kindle?" said Pat.

      "Yes, Mr. Bowman, I was a Federal soldier and continued in active service until I was badly wounded in your State — maybe by you; they say you were a good Reb."

      "Here's my hand, old fellow," said Pat; "if you was a good soldier you are apt to be a fust-class boy. We'll break no more squares — the latch-string hangs on the outside to the fighting boys, whether gray or blue."

      "Thanks, Mr. Bowman," said Kendall, "I could say the same to you were you in my Northern land; we fought like soldiers — we forgive like friends."

      "Yes, but," said Pat, "you fought us unfair — you sent to the old country and got them bottle-bellied Dutch to fight us with."

      "Well, Mr. Bowmen, to tell the truth, we were forced to do that to fill up the ranks you fiery Southern soldiers swept away."

      "You are an honest Yankee, Kindle," said Pat, "and I'll bet was a good soldier!"

      "Mr. Bowman, I'm almost a Virginian — was badly wounded in 1864 in Virginia, from which I have never recovered, and I come to the country every summer which deprived me of health, to get a share of it back from your delightful climate and mineral waters."

      "And you were wounded in Virginia, Kendall?" said Melton — "what battle?"

      "In a skirmish at Hanging Rock, near Salem, on Hunter's retreat from Lynchburg," said Kendall.

      "I happened to have a hand on the other side in that myself. We did a little retreating to Lynchburg first," said Melton.

      "Were you the chap, Melton," said Pat, "that stuck a tar birrel to the Natural Bridge und tried to burn it before the Yankees passed on that raid?"

      "Take care, you old crane you!" said Melton; 'I'll tell what a fool trick you did when you set fire to a barrel of oil on the bridge across the James at Buchanan — set fire to the end next the Yankees — then had to swim the river and got a bullet in the end nearest the Feds, too, you old numbskull: then got drunk and swore you'd fight the whole army before they should take the town of Buchanan, because it was named after your grandfather; fell in the gutter and let the Yankees capture you."

      "Keep that darned oily tongue of yours in your chops, you little snipe," said Pat; "there is no truth in it, no how. As for the Yankees gittin' me, that's none your business. I was cotch by a clever blue-coat, give him a drink and told him how I got shot and drunk and he slipped me in the brush."

      "I was on the advance guard right at that bridge when burnt," said Kendall, and his eyes twinkled as though he remembered more, and Pat gave him an inquiring glance and seemed inclined to change the topic.

      "Say, Whitten," said Pat, "haven't you fed yer dogs yit? Go, George, and git him a pot of mush. Let them fill themselves full of it to-night — it's the best of all feed to run on — and they must have but a bite in the mornin'" They were called up and "filled full" sure enough.

      "Look here, Whitten," said Pat, "do you think them little spinly-legged dogs of yourn can jump the red brush with my hounds? I tell you, boys," continued Pat, "for a deer dog give me a right big one — wide 'tween fore legs, strong legs, short paster jints, big feet and hard as as a horses' huf — want a foot that won't let claws wear off and a dog that won't run from a fice. You laugh at me, boys, but I know. It stands to reason that any strong animal is the best for strong work."

      "I don't know, Pat," said Whitten, "how my dogs will stand a deer — they are capital on a fox."

      "Boys, we'll have a right day to-morrow; it's time you were going to roost. We'll have breakfast at half after three in the mornin' and Whitten and Joice must be on the deer afore daylight. I wish I had a flax break fur that lyin' snipe to snooze on."

      Half fatigued from a day's ride we retired, but forced to steal from the refreshing sleep that awaited a few moments to muse over the pleasures of the morrow. Free of all care, how pleasant to anticipate the sight of the nimble, flying deer, the music of the eager and faithful hound, the dash over the splendid mountain road, to sniff the virgin breeze of the giant mountain, see ivy roughs and laurel-hedged mountain brook and the graceful, swaying hemlock! With these bright fancy pictures, whose mind could spare room for malice, envy, meanness or groveling idea? Certain it is that all industrious business men will and ought to have their recreations and sports, and in spite of the sneers of the prophetic croaker the hunt seems more ennobling, at least, than the ruinous cards or the effeminate and less attractive billiards, full of their absurd and undignified wrangles, where saint and sinner may with impunity swear and tear. The hunter's season is but a short one in the least busy time of the year, but most pleasant and healthful. The faro bank and billiard saloon hold but one season — that the year round — and become most attractive when the "wicked love darkness better than light."

      "Git up, men," said George, "breakfast is ready. Pop said he drempt of blood last night, and I never knowed it to fail that a deer was killed when he drempt that."

      "Hey, boys, crawl out of here!" said Pat. "I dremp of blood last might, and of killin' a deer and its tongue fallin' out on the right side of its mouth. Now, boys, this is a certain sign, unless something breaks the charm. If you meet a woman to-day, boys, I want to caution you; it's bad luck, unless you can make her back track. Egad! pay her to go back home, or else I'll swear you won't kill a thing, I've spent fifty bushels corn in my life hirin' of 'em."

      "What sort of a morning, old boomer, is it?" said Melton.

      "Capital — foggy down here but frost on the mountain; not a particle of wind, not a leaf fell last night to kiver tracks."

      "That's all right," chimed a half dozen voices>

      In we go to the dining-room. We meet at the door the aroma of venison, "baked pork," fried sweet potatoes, buck-wheat cakes, delicious yellow butter, and an appetite for much else that we found on the copious table.

      "Eat hearty, boys," was Pat's command, and we obeyed.

      "Hello! Somebody at the gate, old man," said Pat's cheerful old spouse. "John Maltney, boys," said Pat; "he rides a pison fine sorrel and would kill him any time for a deer. 'Take care, Saurer, he don't tan your jackets to-day!" And he was trained to a horse and rides like a Comanche.

      The horn sounded, and its thrilling echoes broke the stillness of the early morn, winding higher and higher from peak to peak until its countless reverberations reached far away into the shaggy wood, where the startled deer had not yet ceased to nip the tender bud, and then were lost. Then came the chorus of dog yells.

      "Bob," said the old lady to Joice, one of the "drivers," "you had better put a snack of something to eat in your pocket." "No, indeed," said Joice; "don't you know what a fool a houn' is? — they'd smell the victuls and sneak behind us all day."

      "Boys, I see you all have some sense — you don't take many traps with you," said Pat; "you'll need more spurs than powder and lead to-day." "I have taken load or two of small shot, Mr. Bowman," said Kendall, "I thought I might see a partridge before we took our stands, if you will consent for me to shoot one." "How in the thunder do you expect to see a partridge in the woods, man?" said Pat; "they stay in the rag weeds in the bottom."

      We had six miles to ride. The fog lay thick in the valley, around the lowlands, and reached high up the mountain, and three miles were left in the rear before we emerged from this thick vapor, which lay then perfectly level, hiding the valley and looking like the face of a calm lake. Through it here and there twined in their grand and rugged majesty the peaks of the neighboring mountains. The sun, just rising, shot its beams along the bosom of this ocean of fog and struggled to penetrate below. What a pity to be disturbed in our admiration by one of Pat's ludicrous freaks. While all were intent a grouse flew up and circled near Pat, and Kendall followed it with his gun, and when ranging on Pat he "dropped" beautifully to shot by rolling off his sleek horse flat on the ground. At the report of Kendall's gun a cloud of feathers told the tale.

      "Are you a start natered, teetotal darned fool, Kindle?" said Pat. "You'd a shot me if I hadn't dodged."

      "Fine partridge this is, boys," said Kendall, holding the bird up.

      "Partridge the devil!" said Pat. 'That's a pheasant. They say you Yankees are always inventin' something, and now you want to make a new name for this old bird."

      "We call them partridges with us, Mr. Bowman."

      "Get on your horse, you old skeleton you," said Melton. "The deer will be through before we get to our stands."

      "Well, you couldn't kill it if you was there, ficety!" said Pat.

      Off we went at a brisk pace. Who is it that has sniffed the woodland autumn air that can forget its intoxicating effects? The frost was fast melting before the sun's rays from off the sun-cured leaves, distilling the sweetest and most refreshing of all perfumes. "Hush!" said Saurer, "Listen — the dogs!" Distinctly came the fierce and eager bay of the irrepressible Spring. But a moment and the pack joined in the music upon a fresh and warm scent. Up the rugged red brush and pine spar they go, but still far beneath us. The sounds, softened by distance, arose and came on the crisp air as if muffled by the wires of the telephone. A perfect yell! "Listen, boys," said Maltney, "it's jumped; keep a look out." Nearer they come — one continuous roar, but fierce and eager above all the din was the foremost cry of savage Spring and her dashing shadow, the pup. Yonder it is. Click, click go the locks. "Oh, pshaw, boys! it is passing below us," said Maltney. "My stars! it's flying like the wind," said Kendall, as his eyes fairly jumped from his head. "Look at them dogs," said Pat. "Gosh! they are settin' the woods afire." "Where will it take water, Maltney, do you think?" inquired Melton. "At the Cold Spring at the end of Stone Mountain. See that bare, rough cliff?" responded Maltney. "How far is it, Maltney?" "Seven miles," he responded, as he gave loose rein and leaned forward on his leaping sorrel at the mention of miles.

      "Good-bye, old snail," said Melton to Pat.

      "I'll bust my hoss's melt or tan your jacket, you aggervatin' cuss you," said Pat, mad as blixum. Pat clinched his spurs in the sides of his quiet horse, and off he went like thunder.

      "Boys," said Saurer, as we reached the mountain foot, "I'll kill that deer at the Spring, and have a julep fixed by the time you get there," and like an arrow his restive pray shot through the verdant laurel bottom and out of sight. Soon we joined our comrade at the Cold Spring, and cold indeed it was, as the half-icy bubbles, beaded by the lichens, over the limestone gravel and down the cedar-covered precipice with a leap to the river. "Hello! old boy. Where's that deer and julep?" said Melton. "Yonder comes Joice and Whitten, they can tell," was the reply. "Boys, I heard the curs bother the hounds on the creek," said Joice. "'Spect some of them have been torn up, or the Walls have killed and hid our deer. I'll gallop back and straiten em," and off he shot. "Melton, you stand here," said Maltney, "and don't leave a moment, and I will scatter the others along the road and top of the mountain."

      Here come the tired dogs along the bare stones on top of the mountain. The tireless pup leading on the cold trail fairly gnawing the rocks to find it.

      "Here, Whitten, it's been among a gang of sheep," said Joice.

      Kendall had joined the "drivers" by that time, and inquired of Joice how he knew the deer track from a sheep's. "Why," answered Whitten for him, "a deer's hoofs are much more pointed, spread more, and its dew claws are sharper and go into the ground. And," continued the graduate in woodcraft, "you ask why it got among the sheep. It is something in their nature that always makes them go among any kind of stock, when dodging, which sometimes loses a dog completely."

      "Look here, Melton," said Pat, tiptoeing, "you've bin outen this stand," when to the mortification of the Cold Spring hero, the dogs trailed in ten feet of him.

      "Well," said Melton, "I did grow restless about an hour ago, and left this stand for just five minutes by my watch."

      "Thunder and Tom Walker!" said the irate Pat, "hain't you one grain of sense? Don't you know that's just long enough to let a deer pass? Jist like you town fellers — fine standers! I told you not to go back after your confounded old glove this morning, that you'd have bad luck."

      "Look here, Bowman, you are a little too personal; take care you don't make a donkey of yourself before this hunt ends."

      The hounds passed to a slope facing the east, which was moist, and they became more eager. "Boys," said Whitten, "it's lying just over the cedar point."

      "Well," said Melton, with the sharpness of ill humor, "I'll kill that deer yet and redeem myself or break my own or my horse's neck."

      "Yes," said Pat, "you'll play thunder!" Such a roar!"

      "Look yonder, boys, see that deer!" said Saurer. "Now Maltney, Kendall, here's to the slayer," and he cocked his double barrel and fairly rose from his saddle.

      Melton seemed no madder than his stormy black, whose nostrils spread and showed his heated blood. Maltney dashed to Melton as if to banter, and then the reckless ride! neck or deer! Dash over the rail fence, which flew right and left — sprang into the broad field. All took fire, for Kendall was close along with Saurer's careful eye, as Pat came thundering by on his now unmanageable horse. The froth flies from the mouth of the screaming tan pup as he heads out, stretching like a rubber string, fast on the heels of the poor distracted deer. One dash and Maltney's steed has the better of him and passes the deer. Poor Bowman's horse was now far off at a tangent, and with crazy fury approaching a precipice, and as he reached its edge turned short and over it hurled poor old Pat; and was out of sight! "My heavens!" cried Kendall, "poor Bowman's killed," and in a flash he turned from the chase to his rescue. With a vicious sharp crack from Melton's trusty gun the deer, without a struggle, fell amid gathered rustics, drivers, hounds and horses, and Melton had redeemed himself.

      But poor old Bowman! Where was he? With one accord all bounded to his relief. And where was he, sure enough? Below the cliff, where he was hurled, grew a heavy topped and bushy hornbeam, with its lithe branches, entwined in which was the thick growth of wild grape vines. Pat had fortunately struck this tree in his fall, and his legs were thrust up to his crotch among the tops. Melton's eyes were from some cause moist when he heard of his old friend's fall, but as he peered through the vines at Kendall extricating the fallen hero with his knife he greeted him with "Hello, rooster, why don't you crow? we've got the deer." "Goodness! Melton, there's no fun in this. I'm nearly split open. All I want is to git outer here to shoot that cussed brute that sended me over here;" and Bow. was extricated with only such injuries as skinned knees and shins, and a stiff spine from the sudden jar.

---

      A week passed off with hunts more or less varied in their results and excitement. The evening before the day fixed for our departure, Melton, Kendall and Saurer had spent in bagging pheasants. The day closed with a sleety rain, chilling the bird hunters severely, and on their entering the cheery sitting room they were confronted with a glowing wood fire. "Pat," said Saurer, "brush up the hearth and put a dozen good ripe apples before the fire to roast, and let's give Kendall a farewell with an old-fashioned Virginia toddy." "Enough said," chimed Pat; "maybe it will warm up my stove-up back." "Melton," said Saurer, "have you any of that old peach brandy left?" "Yes, look in my valise, in a morocco-covered quart flask, and you will find it full of brandy Bill Wallace made four years ago out of fine peaches, from which he extracted the seed before stilling." "Don't take the apples up yet, Pat; let them scorch a little," said Saurer. "Do you want anything else to make the stuff with," said Pat; "any other flavorin'?" "Get me a tea-kettle full of clean water and heat it hot, and some loaf sugar. I would like to know how you could improve the flavor of the peach and apple mixed?" said Saurer. "That's a mess, hot water, apples, sugar and liquor all mixed," said Pat. "You old scrub, take this glass and take back what you said about it or I'll throttle you in a minute," said Melton. A short interim passed and the moisture came on Bow.'s brow, and he said sprily, "Boys, it's better nor I tho't — let's have another," and he turned and tipped Kendall's glass. "Kindle," said he, "here's to all sich Yankees as you; here's to them wife and numerous children you talk of; come to my house every year, it shan't cost you a red." "Yes, may he live to tree you agin next fall, old coon," said Melton. "Yes, cuss you, you'd laugh if I broke my neck next fall; you've got no feelin' no how!" The cups were drained.

      "Pat, do you know I'm the man who let you loose when wounded at Buchanan at the bridge burning you spoke of the other night?" said Kendall. "'By golly, Kindle, I believe it. I believe you were born to save my life. I thought I'd seen you afore, and if you shot me that day and wus a Yankee, all right." "I was a soldier, Bow.; have found men like you in the South do not harbor malice at us, and I shall always remember you with kindness and return to see you again." Pat mopped his brow, went weaving to the door with "Good night, boys."

      The whip cracked over our teams by daylight next morning, and we went sailing homeward. Thus did the hunters of the Gray and Blue mix.