cabin, and had but a vague notion of
where the others went.

By jinks, it was cold! I built a little fire between the buttressing
roots of a big mountain oak, but still my toes and fingers were numb.
This was the 25th of November, and we were at an altitude where
sometimes frost forms in July. The other men were more thinly clad than
I, and with not a stitch of wool beyond their stockings; but they seemed
to revel in the keen air. I wasted some pity on Cope, who had no
underwear worthy of the name; but afterwards I learned that he would not
have worn more clothes if they had been given him. Many a night my
companions had slept out on the mountain without blanket or shelter,
when the ground froze and every twig in the forest was coated with rime
from the winter fog.

Away out yonder beyond the mighty bulk of Clingman Dome, which, black
with spruce and balsam, looked like a vast bear rising to contemplate
the northern world, there streaked the first faint, nebulous hint of
dawn. Presently the big bear's head was tipped with a golden crown
flashing against the scarlet fires of the firmament, and the earth
awoke.

A rustling some hundred yards below me gave signal that the gray
squirrels were on their way to water. Out of a tree overhead hopped a
mountain "boomer" (red squirrel), and down he came, eyed me, and
stopped. Cocking his head to one side he challenged peremptorily: "Who
are you? Stump? Stump? Not a stump. What the deuce!"

I moved my hand.

"Lawk--the booger-man! Run, run, run!"

Somewhere from the sky came a strange, half-human note, as of someone
chiding: "_Wal_-lace, _Wal_-lace, _Wat_!" I could get no view for the
trees. Then the voice flexibly changed to a deep-toned "Co-_logne_,
Co-_logne_, Co-_logne_," that rang like a bell through the forest
aisles.

Two names uttered distinctly from the air! Two scenes conjured in a
breath, vivid but unrelated as in dreams: Wallace--an iron-bound
Scottish coast; Cologne--tall spires, and cliffs along the Rhine! What
magic had flashed such pictures upon a remote summit of the Smoky
Mountains?

The weird speaker sailed into view--a raven. Forward it swept with great
speed of ebon wings, fairly within gunshot for one teasing moment. Then,
as if to mock my gaping stupor, it hurtled like a hawk far into the safe
distance, whence it flung back loud screams of defiance and chuckles of
derision.

As the morning drew on, I let the fire die to ashes and basked lazily in