The house was situated on a hill near the river. From one of its windows the crystal stream could be seen. Every surrounding was attractive to a lover of nature. The house was built of logs and contained two rooms. In one of the rooms there was a great fireplace. It did not take the new occupants long to arrange their scanty collection of furniture. The girl, woman-like, regretted that no better show was made, but the men declared that the house contained everything that was strictly necessary. The third day after their arrival Potter, upon getting up from the breakfast-table (he and John ate at one large box and Alf and his daughter ate at another one of exact pattern), turned to his friends and remarked: "I am going over to Sunset to-day (a village about twenty-five miles distant), to get a Winchester rifle—saw one in a store as I came through the other day—and the books necessary for the beginning of our educational course. I have a few dollars, not many, it is true, but quite enough. John, you and Alf get as much work done as you can. Of course, the season is so far advanced that we can not get in much of a crop, but we must try to raise enough corn to run us during the winter."

Never before had John gone to work with such enjoyment. He sang as he turned over the soil. Encouragement had put a song in his mouth. Alf was delighted, and Jule was so light-hearted and so improved that she sometimes ventured out without her crutch. There was much work to be done, but they all regarded its accomplishment as a pleasure.

Potter did not return until late at night, but his friends had sat up waiting to receive him. He brought the Winchester rifle and a supply of cartridges; he brought the books, some needed dishes, a pair of shoes for John, a Sunday hat for Alf, and a calico dress for Jule.

"Oh, it's de putties thing I eber seed in my life," the girl exclaimed. "W'y dady, jes' look yere at de flowers."

"Grasshoppers, aint da?" said Alf, slyly winking at Potter.

"You know da aint. Whut you come talk dat way fur, say?" She took hold of his ears with a tender pretense of anger, and shook his head. "I'll l'arn you how ter talk dater way 'bout deze flowers. W'y da's so much like sho nuff flowers dat I ken almos' smell de 'fume. Look yere dady, we mus' git Mr. Potter suthin' ter eat."

"Aint I dun heatin' de skillet?" Alf replied. "Cose I is." He went to a box, which, nailed up against the wall, served as a "cubbard," and took out several pieces of white-looking meat.

"What sort of meat do you call that?" Potter asked.

"Dis, sah," Alf rejoined, as he began to dip the meat into a tin plate containing flour, "is some slices offen de breast o' one o' de fines' turkey gobblers I eber seed. John ken tell you how it got here."

"I wuz plowin' 'long jest before dinner," said John, "an' I hearn the gentleman gobblin' out in the woods. I wuz sorter 'stonished, too, fur it's gittin' putty late in the season fur turkeys ter be struttin' erbout. I slipped to the house an' got my rifle an' went into the woods airter him. He wuz so high up in er tree that he didn't pay no 'tention ter me, not b'lievin' I could reach him, I reckon, but I drawed a bead on his head an' down he come."

"I am glad you got him," Potter replied. "You are an excellent shot, I suppose?"

"Wall, I mout not hit er pin-head, but I reckon I could hit er steer."

"Mr. Potter," said Alf, as he stood over the fire frying the turkey breast, "wush I had axed you ter fetch de ole man some fiddle strings."

"Well, if I didn't bring you some I hope, as John's aunt would say, 'I may never stir agin.' Here they are."

"Wall, fo' greshus, ef you ain't de thoughtfules' white man I eber seed. Thankee, sah, thankee. Man mus' almos' be 'spired ter think erbout ever'thing diser way. Now, sah, we gwine ter hab some music in dis yere house. Bible say er man kaint lib by meat an' bread by itse'f; means dat folks aughter hab er little music. Ole Mars David uster play on er harp, an' I lay he done it well, too."

"The fiddle is your favorite instrument, I suppose?"

"You shoutin' now. De ho'n is er mule an' brays; de banger is er chicken dat clucks; de 'cordeon is er dog dat whines; de flute is er sheep dat blates, but de fiddle is er man dat praises de Lawd. De fiddle, sah, is de human bein' o' instrumen's. Now, set up yere ter de table, fur yo' supper's ready."

"Is that rain?" Potter remarked, as he drew his chair up to the box.

"Yas, sah, an' we'se needin' it, too. Look at John, how he's handlin' dem books. Gwine read 'em atter while, ain't you, John?"

"Yes, an' I hope befo' long, too. Ef stickin' to it counts for anything, I know I will. I'd ruther have er good education, than ter have money, an' horses, an' fine clothes."

"You shall have it, my dear boy," Potter replied. "The truest friends of this life are books. With them every man is a king; without them every man is a slave. The mind is God-given, and every good book bears the stamp of divinity. Books are the poor man's riches—the tramp's magnificent coach. I would rather live in a prison where there are books, than in a palace destitute of them."

"Dat's all mighty well, Mr. Potter," Alf interposed, "but yo' vidults gettin' cold. Books ain' gwine keep er man's supper warm. Look at John. He b'l'ebes ever' word you say, an' I doan' know but you'se right myse'f, but books ain't all. Er good heart is better den er book. Look, my little gal is settin' dar fas' ersleep, wid dat caliker coat in her arms. I mus' put her ter bed. Ah, little angel," he added, as he took her up in his arms, "you is de only book dat yo' po' daddy reads. Ter him you is de book o' dis life. All yo' leaves is got love an' tenderness writ on 'em. God bless you." He went into the other room, and closed the door.

A heavy rain fell during the remainder of the night, and at morning, as the soil was too wet to be worked, Potter suggested the advisability of a fishing expedition.

"Jule, you ain't erfeerd ter stay by yo'se'f, air you?" John asked, when all the arrangements had been made.

"Cose I ain't; an' 'sides dat, de Lawd ain't gwine let nobody hurt er po' crippled up chile ez I is."

"Your simple faith is beautiful," said Potter.

"Dar ain't no true faith, sah, dat ain't simple," Alf rejoined.

"You are right," Potter responded, "for when faith ceases to be simple, it becomes a showy pretense. Well, is everything ready?"

"Yes, sah. We'll go erbout er mile up de riber, whar dar is er good hole, an' den feesh up de stream."

The clouds had rolled away, and the day was as bright as a Christian's smile. The mocking-bird, influenced to sportive capers, flew high in the air, poured out an impulsive rhapsody, and then pretended to fall. Down the gullies, spider webs, catching the glare of the sun, shone like mirrors.

They soon reached the "hole" of which Alf had spoken, but the fish would not bite.

"I'll tell you de reason," said the old negro. "Dis water is still risin'. You kaint 'suade er feesh ter bite while de water's risin', but soon ez it 'gins ter fall, w'y da'll grab deze hooks like er chicken pickin' up co'n. Hol' him, John, hol' him. Fo' greshus, dat boy dun hung er whale. Play him roun' diser way. Doan pull him too hard, you'll break yo' line. Swing co'ners wid him; dat's right. Wait; lemme git hold de line. Yere he is. Monst'ous channel cat. Uh, whut er beauty. Weigh ten pounds ef he'll weigh er ounce."

"Good for you, John," said Potter.

"Good fur us all," replied Alf, "fur I gwine ter put dat feesh on ter cook ez soon ez I ken make er fire an' git him ready."

"It is a pity we forgot to bring a frying pan," Potter remarked.

"Doan need one, sah."

"How are you going to cook him, then?"

"You jest wait," said Alf, as he begun preparations for building a fire.

When he had made the fire, he killed the fish and dressed it.

"Are you not going to skin it?" Potter asked.

"You jest wait erwhile, now. Neber seeb sech eatin' in yo' life ez we'se gwine ter hab."

He dug some clay from a bank, poured water upon it, and begun to knead it. Then he took a piece of paper, wrapped the fish in it, and then put on a thick coating of clay.

"See; now I gwine ter put him right yere in de fire, an' let him cook erbout two hours, an' den we'll crack his shell."

They threw out their lines again, but the fish would not bite.

"It ain't no use tryin," Alf declared. "Da ain't gwine ter bite till de water ginter fall."

"Why did one of them bite?" Potter asked.

"Caze he didn' hab ernuff sense ter know dat de water want fallin', sah. You mer jest put it down fur er fack dat when er feesh bites when de water's risin', he ain't got no sense."

"We don't kere whuther they've got any sense or not, so long as they bite," John remarked.

"You're right dar; plum right. I'd ruther know dat er feesh no longer den my han' would bite, den ter know dat one ez big ez me wuz smart ernuff ter preach. Wall, ef dat boy ain't dun fotch dat book wid him."

"A good idea, John," said Potter. "We'll sit up there under that rock, and while the fish is cooking we will study our lesson."

So intent was the boy in this, his initiative step in the pursuit of knowledge, that time seemed to take the wings of the sparrow-hawk and swiftly sail away.

Alf called them to dinner. "See," said the negro, "all I had ter do wuz ter crack his shell. You axed me ef I want gwine ter skin him. See, de skin peels right off wid de paper. Openin' yo' eyes in 'stonishment, is you? Jest wait till you taste him. Set down on de rock, an' lemme he'p you ter er monst'ous piece. Sprinkle er little salt on him, dis way. Now, how do he go?"

"Best fish I ever tasted, I must say."

"Cose he is. All de flaber kep' in by dat clay."

"If we had brought our guns along, we might have had some squirrels."

"Not lessen we'd fotch de dog ter tree 'em."

"Well, we might have brought the dog."

"No, fur it's bad luck ter take er dog wid you er feeshin'. Dat's de reason I driv Ole Pete back. Tuck er dog feeshin' wid me wunst an' it want mo' den er week airter dat till I tuck de dew pizen in one o' my feet."

"Not because you took the dog, Alf, but because you went in the dew."

"Dar mout be suthin in dat fack, sah, but I know dat airterwards I went feeshin' widout takin' de dog an' soon got well o' de pizen. Tell you whut we better do airter we git done eatin'. Better go 'bout er mile up de riber ter er place whar de bass will bite like er settin' hen. De water will be fallin' by dat time. Dar's er bend in the riber right up yander, an' we ken cut off er good many steps by goin' through de bottom."

They started immediately after dinner, and had gone but a short distance into the "bottom", when old Alf stopped, took off his hat, and said:

"Dar now, dat do settle it, sho."

"What is the matter?" Potter asked.

"Doan you yere dem wolves? My greshus, whut er pack it is, too. Lissen."

"I hear them now," said Potter. "Do you hear them, John?"

"Yes, sir. I have been hearin' em fur some time, but didn't zackly know whut they was. It ain't common that they come inter this neighborhood."

"No," Alf rejoined; "an' it won't be common dat we'll go anywhar airter dis day lessen we make some mighty fast preparations. 'Tain't no use'n us tryin' ter run erway, Mr. Potter, fur da'd ketch us 'fo' we got ha'f er mile. We'll hatter climb up er tree an' wait till da goes erway. De only trouble is da mout keep us yere till we starve ter death. Da's gittin' yere. Hop up in er tree."

Potter and Alf climbed one tree; John sought refuge in another one a short distance away. The howling grew louder and louder. Alf declared that the wolves must be nearly starved or they would not cut up such "shines" in daylight. A small open space that lay between the two trees was soon alive with the howling, snarling, and snapping "varmints," as Alf termed them. Occasionally some bold leader would leap high in the air and snap at the men; others busied themselves with gnawing at the trees.

"Did'n' I tell you it wuz bad luck ter bring er dog er feeshin'?" said Alf.

"Yes," Potter replied; "but what new fact has caused you to speak of it again? The dog did not come with us, yet we have the bad luck of being treed by wolves."

"Yas, sah, yas; but if dat dog wuz yere deze wolves would eat him up, an' dat would be monst'ous bad luck fur him. How I do wush I had my gun. I wouldn' ax fur nuthin' sweeter den ter set up yere an' blow de life outen deze raskils. How you gittin' long ober dar, John?"

"Fust rate; but I'd be enjoyin' myse'f er good deal better ef I had my rifle. How I'd like ter draw er bead on that whopper; that old shaggy feller."

"Laws er massy, how I would. He's er ole pollertician, he is, an' I lay he gits ever' vote in de croud. Bet he ain't been de sheriff o' de den no less 'en er dozen times. I—whut de matter wid 'em?"

Suddenly the wolves with one impulse ceased their howling, "tucked" their tails, and ran away.

"A very gentlemanly act," Potter exclaimed. "Now we can get down from these uncomfortable perches."

"Hol' on," cried Alf. "Set right whar you is, fur dar's suthen wus den wolves round yere now. Look dar! Lawd an' de mussyful hebens proteck us!"

Two enormous panthers bounded into the open space. They cast quick glances in the direction which the wolves had taken, and then, turning about, bent their fiery gaze on Potter and the old negro. Potter turned pale, and, addressing Alf, said: "Old man, we are doomed. They will never leave us until their awful mouths are stained with our blood."

"Oh, Lawd," the old negro cried, "look down yere an' see de awful fix yo' po' servant dun got inter. Lawd, da gwine ter chaw de life outen yo' po' servant. Lawd, de bigges' one got his eyes dead set on yo' po' servant. Where'll I be dis time ter mor'. Oh, Mr. Potter, how I wush I wuz at de house drinkin' butter milk. Lawd, yo' ole servant wushes you'd strike deze pant'ers wid lightnin'. Oh, Lawd, I'd ruther die den ter be killed by er pant'er."

The panthers stood gazing at them.

Potter's pallor was gone, and on his face there rested an expression of resignation. "If they intend to do anything," said he, "I wish they would not put it off any longer. This delay is awful."

"Oh, doan say dat, Mr. Potter; oh, sweet Mr. Potter, doan say dat. Doan make no sich subjestions ter 'em, fur doan you see da's jes' waitin' fur dar mines ter git made up. My greshus, I ken feel dat monster's eyes. Da burns inter my flesh. Da ain't payin' no 'tention ter John. Look yere, dat boy ain't in de tree!"

"That's a fact," Potter cried. "What do you suppose has become of him?"

"God bless him, he's slipped down an' is gone home airter er gun. Oh, Lawd, gib de rabbit's mobement ter his legs. Let him leap ober rocks an' gullies like er fox. Dar ain't much hope fur us, though, Mr. Potter, fur by de time he gits back dem May-apple stalks down dar will be stained wid our blood. Da won't wait no longer den sundown, nohow, an' see, de sun ain't high. Ef John—mussyful hebens!"

One of the panthers had run forward, but he only sniffed the air at the root of the tree and then returned to his companion.

"Dat's right, good Lawd, hold de monster back, an' please doan let him stick his nose ergin dis tree no mo'. Look at 'em watchin' de sun. Da's sorter skittish o' de bright blaze, but when de blaze goes out an' de red glow comes, den suthen' redder will be poured on de groun'. It will be our blood. Oh, Lawd, dat raskil is lookin' harder an' harder at yo' po' servant. Wush I had er went ter er camp meetin' summers 'stead o' cumin' yere ter day, but, Lawd, it's allus de way wid er po' weak man. He's allus treadin' de path dat leads ter 'struckshun. Wush I wuz plowin' right now, eben ef de groun' is too wet. I'd ruther be anywhar—anything. Wush I wuz er 'oman er takin' in washin' fur er livin'. Wush I wuz er gal er patchin' geans britches."

"I hope John will bring my Winchester rifle," said Potter.

"He'll do dat, sah; he'll do dat."

"But do you suppose he knows how to use it?"

"Yes, sah; he's seed 'em befo'. Oh, Lawd, doan furgit whut er awful fix yo' po' servant is in. Dat sun goin' down mighty fas'. Look how da watchin' it."

It did seem as if the panthers stole an occasional and anxious glance at the sun.

"De fust pant'ers I'se seed in dis yere 'munity fur er mighty long time," old Alf went on, in his prayerful way, "an' I wushes, Lawd, dat I neber had seed deze. Wush I wuz er boy in er swimin' under some shady tree. Oh, Lawd, de raskil dun looked at de sun ergin."

He kept up a ceaseless flow of supplication. The sun seemed to sink rapidly. The shadows of the May-apple stalks were getting longer and longer. The panthers became restless. The old negro's prayer increased in earnestness. One of the panthers, the male, ran back a short distance, then coming forward with mighty bounds, sprang high in the air and caught the body of the tree.

Bang!

The panther fell to the ground. The other one ran forward, touched, with her bristly lips, her dead companion's blood, and then springing up, caught the body of the tree.

Bang!

"Thank de Lawd; thank de Lawd!" cried Alf, as he began to scramble down; "thank de Lawd."

He seized John in his arms. "Oh, de Lawd ain't gwine ter let his chillun suffer long. Yas, Mr. Potter, take holter dis young pussun. Dat's right, hug him, but look out, for you'se monst'ous strong. Bless us, de chile come back on er hoss. Sheddin' tears, too. Huh, I comin' back yere termor' an' skin deze genermen. Frien's, jes' wait er minit till I git down on my knees an' pray."

John and Potter removed their hats. The old negro sank down upon his knees, raised his clasped hands, and delivered in these words his simple prayer: "Lawd, whuteber happens un'er yo' count'nance is right, but we do thank thee fur dis ack o' hebenly mussy. Amen."