| For, jaded now and spent with toil, |
| Embossed with foam and dark with soil, |
| While every gasp with sobs he drew, |
| The laboring stag strained full in view. |
The little girl’s heart beat fast. She fled along through the next lines, stumbling desperately over the hard words but seeing the headlong chase through them clearly as through tree-trunks in a forest. Uncle Henry broke in in a triumphant shout:
| The wily quarry shunned the shock |
| And turned him from the opposing rock; |
| Then dashing down a darksome glen, |
| Soon lost to hound and hunter’s ken, |
| In the deep Trossach’s wildest nook |
| His solitary refuge took. |
“Oh my!” cried Elizabeth Ann, laying down the book. “He got away, didn’t he? I was so afraid he wouldn’t!”
“I can just hear those dogs yelping, can’t you?” said Uncle Henry.
Yelled on the view the opening pack.
“Sometimes you hear ’em that way up on the slope of Hemlock Mountain back of us, when they get to running a deer.”
“What say we have some pop-corn!” suggested Aunt Abigail. “Betsy, don’t you want to pop us some?”
“I never did,” said the little girl, but in a less doubtful tone than she had ever used with that phrase so familiar to her. A dim notion was growing up in her mind that the fact that she had never done a thing was no proof that she couldn’t.
“I’ll show you,” said Uncle Henry. He reached down a couple of ears from a big yellow cluster hanging on the wall, and he and Betsy shelled them into the popper, popped it full of snowy kernels, buttered it, salted it, and took it back to the table.