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Hummocks and ice-jams and the weaving patterns of mink tracks were blended in one white immensity, on which Carl was like a fly on a plaster ceiling. The world was deserted. But Carl was not lonely. He forgot all about Gertie as he cached his skees by the shore and prowled through the woods, leaping on brush-piles and shooting quickly when a rabbit ran out.
Rag knew what it meant and it sent a shiver through him, but he soon forgot that when all was over and rejoiced to be once more the master of the dear old Swamp. Old Olifant had doubtless a right to burn all those brush-piles in the east and south of the Swamp and to clear up the wreck of the old barbed-wire hog-pen just below the spring. But it was none the less hard on Rag and his mother.
Oysters are grown in great quantities in the oyster-beds along the bay shore. The largest size, which are called "transplanted," are brought from the East as very small or baby oysters and dropped into shallow water, where they cling to rocks or brush-piles till grown. Tom also caught a perch, and clinging to it as he drew in his line was a large, hard-shelled, long-clawed crab.
I could heah the ringin' o' David's ax, ez he chopped away, an'h hit seemed ter be sayin' ter me cheefully all the time: 'Heah I am hard at work. The smoke from some brush-piles that he'd sot afire riz up slowly an' gently, fur thar wuz no wind a-stirring. The birds sung gayly 'bout their work o' nest-buildin', an' I couldn't help singin' about mine.
A little judicious guidance had transferred the uncomfortable visitor to Olifant's hen-house. But they were not yet quite sure that he had been properly looked after. So for the present they gave up using the ground-holes, which were, of course, dangerous blind-alleys, and stuck closer than ever to the briers and the brush-piles that were left.
I did not jump or run that time; I merely opened out my wings and flew. Corn-rows, brush-piles, fences, were as nothing. I sailed over them like a gnat till I reached the big main road. I was not interested in short cuts, after that, and I didn't cross that field again for years. I was not afraid, but I did not wish to be surprised again. I recall another time But this is not a snake story.
Rag knew what it meant and it sent a shiver through him, but he soon forgot that when all was over and rejoiced to be once more the master of the dear old Swamp. Old Olifant had doubtless a right to burn all those brush-piles in the east and south of the Swamp and to clear up the wreck of the old barbed-wire hog-pen just below the spring. But it was none the less hard on Rag and his mother.
A little judicious guidance had transferred the uncomfortable visitor to Olifant's hen-house. But they were not yet quite sure that he had been properly looked after. So for the present they gave up using the ground-holes, which were, of course, dangerous blind-alleys, and stuck closer than ever to the briers and the brush-piles that were left.
Standing out darkly on the crest of a rise two hundred yards back, was a low shanty-like house, in which appeared a single gleam of light. Between, to the road, stretched a desolate moonlit prospect of stumps, decaying logs and brush-piles. On either side the woods formed a towering wall of blackness. Rocking and pitching, the wagon made its way up a rutty, corkscrew lane.
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