“How de do? how de do? ain’t frightened I hope; it’s nobody but me, Seth Jones, from New Hampshire,” said the new-comer in a peculiar accent. As the woodman looked up he saw a curious specimen of the genus homo before him. He is what is termed a Yankee, being from New Hampshire; but he was such a person as is rarely met with, and yet which is too often described now-a-days. He possessed a long, thin Roman nose, a small twinkling gray eye, with a lithe muscular frame, and long dangling limbs. His feet were encased in well-fitting shoes, while the rest of his dress was such as was in vogue on the frontiers at the time of which we write. His voice was in that peculiar, uncertain state, which is sometimes seen when it is said to be “changing.” When excited, it made sounds singular and unimaginable.
The woodman, with characteristic penetration, read the man before him at a glance. Changing his rifle to his left hand, he extended the other.
“Certainly not, my friend; but then, you know, these are times, in which it behooves us all to use caution and prudence; and where one is placed in such a remote section as this it would be criminal to be careless, when more than one life is dependent upon me for support and protection.”
“Very true, very true, you’re right there, Mr. —— ah! I declare, I don’t know your name.”
“Haverland.”
“You’re right, as I said, Mr. Have-your-land, or Haverland as the case may be. I tell you these are dubious times—no disputin’ that, and I am considerably s’prised when I heard the ring of an ax down in these parts.”
“And I was equally surprised to meet your visage when I looked up. Jones, I believe you said was your name.”
“Exactly:—Seth Jones, from New Hampshire. The Jones’ are a numerous family up there—rather too many of them for comfort,—so I migrated. Mought be acquainted perhaps?”
“No; I have no acquaintances, to my knowledge, in that section.”