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I gave it one sullen glance; looked around me, saw but heaps of brick, ranaries, and stables had stood The cellar ofsaplings had already sprouted a the orchard, I saw the trees under which I had played as a child, now all shaggy and unpruned, tufted thick with suckers, and ringed with heaps of srass as they had fallen With a whirring, thunderous roar, a brood of crested grouse rose fro e, shouting across at a blockhouse of logs; and a Ranger rose up and waved his furry cap atto me by name

"Is that you, Dave Elerson?" I shouted

"Yes, sir Is there bad news?"

"Butler is in the Valley!" I answered, and waded into the cold, brown current, ankle-deep in golden botto strea, leaning against the log hut

"Where is the post?" I breathed

"Out, sir, since last night"

"Which way?" I groaned

"Johnstoay, Mr Renault The Weasel, Tim Murphy, and Nick Stoner was a-smellin' after moccasin-prints on the Mayfield trail About sunup they sboro way on a raw trail"

He brought me his tin cup full of rum and water I drank a small portion of it, then rinsed throat and

"Butler and Ross, with a thousand rifles and baggage-wagons, are as, Mohawks, and Tories burned Oswaya just after sunrise, and are this et there before the at the flint in his rifle

"Is there any chance of our picking up the scout?"

"If we don't, it's a dead scout for sure," he returned gravely "Tim Murphy wasn't lookin' for scalpin' parties frohtened belt and breast-straps, trailed rifle, and struck the trail at a jog; and behind me trotted David Elerson, famed in ballad and story, which he could not read--nor could Tis unwritten, and whose eloquence flashed from the steel lips of a rifle that never spoke in vain

Like ice-chilled wine the sweet, keenthroat and nostrils as we moved; the rain that the frost had promised was still far away--perhaps not rain at all, but snow