CHAPTER II.

An Ugly Customer.

Directly behind the cottage stands a long, low, neatly constructed building, which is divided by partitions into three rooms, of which one is used as a wood-shed, another for a carpenter’s shop, and the third is what Frank calls his “museum.”  It contains stuffed birds and animals, souvenirs of many a well-contested fight.  Let us go and examine them.  About the middle of the building is the door which leads into the museum, and, as you enter, the first object that catches your eye is a large wild-cat, crouched on a stand which is elevated about four feet above the floor, his back arched, every hair in his body sticking toward his head, his mouth open, displaying a frightful array of teeth, his ears laid back close to his head, and his sharp claws spread out, presenting altogether a savage appearance; and you are glad that you see him dead and stuffed, and not alive and running at liberty in the forest in the full possession of strength.  But the young naturalist once stood face to face with this ugly customer under very different circumstances.

About forty miles north of Lawrence lives an old man named Joseph Lewis.  He owns about five hundred acres of land, and in summer he “farms it” very industriously; but as soon as the trapping season approaches he leaves his property to the care of his hired men, and spends most of the time in the woods.  About two-thirds of his farm is still in its primeval state, and bears, wild-cats, and panthers abound in great numbers.  The village boys are never more delighted than when the winter vacation comes, and they can gain the permission of their parents to spend a fortnight with “Uncle Joe,” as they call him.

The old man is always glad to see them, and enlivens the long winter evenings with many a thrilling story of his early life.  During the winter that had just passed, Frank, in company with his cousin Archie Winters, of whom more hereafter, paid a visit to Uncle Joe.  One cold, stormy morning, as they sat before a blazing fire, cracking hickory-nuts, the farmer burst suddenly into the house, which was built of logs, and contained but one room, and commenced taking down his rifle.

“What’s the matter, Uncle Joe?” inquired Archie.

“Matter!” repeated the farmer; “why, some carnal varmint got into my sheep-pen last night, and walked off with some of my mutton.  Come,” he continued, as he slung on his bullet-pouch, “let’s go and shoot him.”

Frank and Archie were ready in a few minutes; and, after dropping a couple of buck-shot into each barrel of their guns, followed the farmer out to the sheep-pen.  It was storming violently, and it was with great difficulty that they could find the “varmint’s” track.  After half an hour’s search, however, with the assistance of the farmer’s dogs, they discovered it, and began to follow it up, the dogs leading the way.  But the snow had fallen so deep that it almost covered the scent, and they frequently found themselves at fault.  After following the track for two hours, the dogs suddenly stopped at a pile of hemlock-boughs, and began to whine and scratch as if they had discovered something.