rth country 'a natural cooner'. After nightfall, when the corn was
ripening, he spoke in a whisper and had his ear cocked for coons. But he
loved all kinds of good fun.

So this man had a boy in his heart and a boy in his basket that evening
we left the old house. My father and mother and older brother had been
drowned in the lake, where they had gone for a day of pleasure. I had
then a small understanding of my loss, hat I have learned since that
the farm was not worth the mortgage and that everything had to be sold.
Uncle Eb and I--a little lad, a very little lad of six--were all that
was left of what had been in that home. Some were for sending me to the
county house; but they decided, finally, to turn me over to a dissolute
uncle, with some allowance for my keep. Therein Uncle Eb was to
be reckoned with. He had set his heart on keeping me, but he was a
farm-hand without any home or visible property and not, therefore, in
the mind of the authorities, a proper guardian. He had me with him in
the old house, and the very night he heard they were coming after me in
the morning, we started on our journey. I remember he was a long time
tying packages of bread and butter and tea and boiled eggs to the rim
of the basket, so that they hung on the outside. Then he put a woollen
shawl and an oilcloth blanket on the bottom, pulled the straps over his
shoulders and buckled them, standing before the looking-glass, and, hang
put on my cap and coat, stood me on the table, and stooped so that I
could climb into the basket--a pack basket, that he had used in hunting,
the top a little smaller than the bottom. Once in, I could stand
comfortably or sit facing sideways, my back and knees wedged from port
to starboard. With me in my place he blew out the lantern and groped his
way to the road, his cane in one hand, his rifle in the other. Fred, our
old dog--a black shepherd, with tawny points--came after us. Uncle
Eb scolded him and tried to send him back, but I pleaded for the poor
creature and that settled it, he was one of our party.

'Dunno how we'll feed him,' said Uncle Eb. 'Our own mouths are big
enough t' take all we can carry, but I hain' no heart t' leave 'im all
'lone there.'

I was old for my age, they tell me, and had a serious look and a wise
way of talking, for a boy so young; but I had no notion of what lay
before or behind us.

'Now, boy, take a good look at the old house,' I remember he whispered
to me at the gate tha