a fine farm and happy home, and were
prospered in their craving.

There was Abram Colwell, who gloried in never having cyphered beyond
the rule of three, or read any book but his almanac through; but who
was upright as an oak; shrewd as a black fox; hearty as a beaver, and
jocund as a jay.

And there was Bela Wilson, a farmer, a chairmaker, a shoemaker,
carpenter and blacksmith, all in one, as Uncle Walter declared; and
while he was close and exacting in a bargain, and stinted in his gifts,
he had many streaks of kindness, and added usefulness, honor, interest
and life to the settlement.

And among these people Fabens found pleasure and good fortune. The
summer that followed the date of his letter, was warm and fruitful, and
he went forth clearing and planting with a forward heart; and when
September came, he looked back on his labors with pride, and felt a
sense of comfort and content, for the beginning he had made of a home.
By dint of extreme diligence he made a larger clearing in the spring
than he had hoped, and succeeded in planting it all to corn; and now in
the autumn, he had a wide field, bearing the promise of a bountiful
harvest.

But he had not expected increase without tax, nor joy without
annoyance. His corn-hills supported a liberal yield of well-filled,
glistening ears; but foreign feeders that had not planted, nor hoed,
came in for a share of his abundance.

The bears invaded his cornfield, trampled down the stalks, devoured
much, and carried away more than he felt like sparing. He consulted
his neighbors, and found that others were annoyed in the same way, and
all they could do, was to guard their fields as well as they could, and
hunt down and slay some of the ravening forest prowlers.

"We told you, Fabens, you'd have to come to that at last," said
Colwell. "Wild beasts are thick as spatter around here; and you must
down with some of 'em. It's no use to talk baby; you must kill the
critters, or they'll eat you out of house and home."

"But they have a right to live, and I haven't a heart to kill 'em,"
said Fabens.

"It does look kindy cruel to drag down a handsome buck and cut his
glossy throat; and see a harmless fawn spout blood, and strangle and
die; and I used to shut my eyes when I bit a pigeon's neck,[1] and took
little quails' heads off; but now I can do't without winkin'; and as
for them infarnal bears, I'd ruther kill 'em than to eat. And you'll
have to kill 'em, if you wan