ng to the shoulder, it forms a head-dress that is
far from ungraceful. A belt around the waist--a short hunting-knife in
its sheath--a large powder-horn hanging below the arm-pit--a
bullet-pouch underneath, and _voila tout_! No, not all, there remains
to be mentioned the rifle--the arm _par excellence_ of the American
hunter. The portrait of Frank Wingrove--a dashing young backwoodsman,
whose calling is the chase.

The hunter has entered the glade, and is advancing across it. He walks
slowly, but without caution--without that habitual stealthy tread that
distinguishes the sons of Saint Hubert in the West. On the contrary,
his step is free, and the flowers are crushed under his feet. He is not
even silent; but humming a tune as he goes. Notwithstanding that he
appears accoutred for the chase, his movements are not those of one in
pursuit of game. For this morning, at least, he is out upon a different
errand; and, judging from his jovial aspect, it should be one of
pleasure. The birds themselves seem not more gay.

On emerging from the shadow of the tall trees into the open glade
effulgent with flowers, his gaiety seems to have reached its climax: it
breaks forth in song; and for some minutes the forest re-echoes the
well-known lay of "_Woodman spare that tree_." Whence this joyous
humour? Why are those eyes sparkling with a scarce concealed triumph?
Is there a sweetheart expected? Is the glade to the scene of a
love-interview--that glade perfumed and flowery, as if designed for such
a purpose? The conjecture is reasonable: the young hunter has the air
of one who keeps an assignation--one, too, who dreams not of
disappointment. Near the edge of the glade, on the side opposite to
that by which the hunter has come in, is a fallen tree. Its branches
and bark have long since disappeared, and the trunk is bleached to a
brilliant white. In the phraseology of the backwoods, it is no longer a
tree, but a "log." Towards this the hunter advances. On arriving at
the log he seats himself upon it, in the attitude of one who does not
anticipate being for long alone.

There is a path that runs across the glade, bisecting it into two nearly
equal parts. It is a tiny track, evidently not much used. It conducts
from the stream on which stands the cabin of the squatter Holt, to
another "fork" of the same river--the Obion--where clearings are
numerous, and where there is also a large settlement bearing the
dignified ti