est may have actually been on
speaking terms with his brother, but outside of these two gentlemen, we
do not believe that human imagination ever conceived a child of the
forest in any respect resembling "Quaw-taw-pee-ah" on his opening night.

It did seem a little singular to combine the convivial music of "St.
Patrick's day in the morning" with such diabolical grimaces and gestures
as those which the Great Chief used in the pantomimic expression of his
sentiments. But the people were prepared for originality, and they had
it. At any rate the performance received their loud applause. At last,
however, it was over: the successive scenes of the programme had come
and gone--the war dances were finished, the curtain had fallen on the
last act, and Billy Muldoon's trombone had subsided into silence. But if
the performance within was wild, it was nothing to the wild night
without. It was the seventeenth of March, and the snow had been steadily
falling since morning, shrouding the hills and all the surrounding
country with a mantle as white and cold as a winding sheet.

The wind had increased since nightfall, and by the time
"Quaw-taw-pee-ah" had washed his face of its red lead, and Mr. Muldoon
had been paid his share of the proceeds, it was blowing "great guns," as
the sailors say. Out into such a night as this the audience dispersed:
but the lights of home shone through the blinding storm near at hand,
and buffeting with the fierce gusts of whirling snow and wind was only
brave sport for them. Not so, however, with Mr. Billy Muldoon. _His_
home was three miles away, and though the prospect without was anything
but pleasant, he prepared to face it like a man. His only precaution was
to see that an old army canteen was filled afresh with the best whiskey
the neighborhood afforded. Then he started on his homeward journey.

At first it was pretty hard work. The snow had drifted into heaps in
some places, and rose almost to the little man's waist. Still he
struggled bravely on, only stopping now and then to celebrate the
anniversary of Ireland's Patron Saint by taking a long pull and a strong
pull at the canteen.

For a half-hour or more he made but slow progress through the pitiless,
pelting storm, and he heartily cursed his folly in attempting the task
of coming home at all, on such a night as this. But a change came o'er
the spirit of his dream. As the contents of the canteen had diminished,
Billy's spirits had risen in exa