[CHAPTER IX.]
LOST IN THE WOODS.
Nothing could be more exquisitely beautiful than that winter morning in the Maine woods. The white glory of the snow, the stealing pink and gold glances of the sun, the bravery of the trees proudly rearing their heads aloft and stretching out their heavily laden arms,—all made a picture that filled with awe even the heart of rough Bob Lucas, unregistered guide and nominal lumberman, noted for his skill as hunter and poacher and his queer mingling of honesty, law-breaking, piety, and profanity.
No, it was not a picture, it was reality, and he was a part of it. He was in it, he belonged to this glorious morning, the morning belonged to him, and he put up his hand and pulled off his cap.
"Branching candlesticks on the altar of the Lord," he muttered as he surveyed the trees. "I feel like a vessel o' grace, more's the pity I can't take on the actions o' one."
He stood lounging in the cabin door—red-haired, long-nosed, unkempt, and stalwart. Inside were his two sons getting the breakfast, and the appetising odour of frying bacon floated out on the fresh air.
"Hi, Poacher—whot's up with you?" he suddenly exclaimed, and his gaze went to a deerhound of unusually sturdy build, who was ploughing through the snow toward the cabin.
The dog wagged his tail, advanced, and, lifting toward him a countenance so bright with intelligence that it might almost be called human, opened his mouth, and dropped something at his master's feet.
"Hello, boys!" said the man, stepping inside the cabin; "what in the name o' creation's this? I call it a morsel of woman's togs. Don't your mother wear aprons like it, or somethin'?"
The two strapping lads in high boots and woollen shirts turned their red faces from the fireplace.
"Yes, siree," said the taller of them, fingering the scrap of cotton; "they call it something like jingo."