“It was last summer,” answered he; “the child was playing on the side of the road, when he was heard to cry, and seen to make for the house.  As soon as he came, my wife called my attention to what she called a scratch on his leg.  I examined it, the spot was already purple and hard, and the child was crying violently.  I knew it to be the bite of a copper-head, and immediately cut it open with a sharp knife, making the blood to flow freely and washing the part with water.  At the same time we got a yerb” (such was his pronunciation) “on the hills, which some call lion-heart, and others snake-head.  We steeped this yerb in milk which we made him drink.  The doctor had been sent for, and when he came applied hartshorn; but I believe that opening the wound and letting the blood flow was the most effectual remedy.  The leg was terribly swollen, and for ten days we thought the little fellow in great danger, but after that he became better and finally recovered.”

“How do you know that it was a copper-head that bit him?”

“We sent to the place where he was at play, found the snake, and killed it.  A violent rain had fallen just before, and it had probably washed him down from the mountain-side.”

“The boy appears very healthy now.”

“Much better than before; he was formerly delicate, and troubled with an eruption, but that has disappeared, and he has become hardy and fond of the open air.”

We dined at the hotel and left the Water Gap.  As we passed out of its jaws we met a man in a little wagon, carrying behind him the carcass of a deer he had just killed.  They are hunted, at this time of the year, and killed in considerable numbers in the extensive forests to the north of this place.  A drive of four miles over hill and valley brought us to Stroudsburg, on the banks of the Pocano—­a place of which I shall speak in my next letter.

Letter XLII.

An Excursion to the Water Gap.

Easton, Penn., October 24, 1846.

My yesterday’s letter left me at Stroudsburg, about four miles west of the Delaware.  It is a pleasant village, situated on the banks of the Pocano.  From this stream the inhabitants have diverted a considerable portion of the water, bringing the current through this village in a canal, making it to dive under the road and rise again on the opposite side, after which it hastens to turn a cluster of mills.  To the north is seen the summit of the Pocano mountain, where this stream has its springs, with woods stretching down its sides and covering the adjacent country.  Here, about nine miles to the north of the village, deer haunt and are hunted.  I heard of one man who had already killed nine of these animals within two or three weeks.  A traveller from Wyoming county, whom I met at our inn, gave me some account of the winter life of the deer.