And such a supper! More fit to be likened to a bounteous dinner, served up for a regiment of half-famished, war-worn soldiers. The long tables, manufactured from slabs of rudely-hewn wood, and supported by stakes probably furnished from the limbs of the same tree, were piled almost to overflowing with game and pastry.
Such saddles and haunches of venison; delicious buffalo-humps and pickled tongues—the proceeds of an extended hunt, for this especial occasion—the wild turkey, lusciously brown and tempting, almost bursting with the rich dressing; the prairie-chicken and pheasant, quail and snipe; even down to the huge "black-bird pot-pie."
Then the appetizing pastry and preserves, the results of that same season's "berry-hunting"; the honey, from that as clear and limpid as amber, to the dark and strong-flavored "bee-bread"—the vari-colored comb piled in great stacks.
And the strong, fragrant coffee, sweetened with honey and tempered with the thick, golden cream; the highly-prized tiny cups of "real boughten tea," mingled with stronger draughts for those so inclined, of "corn-whisky" and crab-apple cider.
All this, to say nothing of the barbecued game, which is in great demand from the very novelty of its cooking—I could not tell you one tithe of the good things that were there; the very sight of such abundance seeming enough to banish one's appetite for a fortnight to come.
Henry and Nora were the gayest of the gay, even among that happy crowd, and kept those surrounding them in the highest glee with their witticisms and repartee. But they left the table among the first, and strolled back toward the pavilion.
Jack Fyffe fidgeted around for a few moments, and then hastily followed after, announcing his approach with a sonorous cough, that startled the young couple into turning around.
"Beg pardin, square," apologetically began the borderer, "but p'r'aps you'd better be on y'ur guard, like."
"Why so, Josh?—what do you mean?" asked Henry.
"Jest take a squint over yander, an' mebbe you'll see."