the milk-snakes, yellowish gray, with wonderful banded sides and with checker-board designs in black upon their yellow bellies.  Sometimes a pan of milk from the solitary cow, set for its cream in the dug-out cellar beneath the house, would be found with its yellow surface marred and with a white puddling about the floor, and then the milk remaining would be thrown away and there would be a washing and scalding of the pan, because the thief was known.  There were, in the lowlands, the massasaugas; short, sluggish rattle-snakes, venomous but cowardly, and, finally, there were the black-snakes ranging everywhere, for no respecter of locality is bascanion constrictor when in pursuit of prey.  Largest of all the snakes of the region, the only constrictor among them, at home in the lowlands, on the hill-sides or in the tree-tops, the black-snake was the dread of all small creatures of the wood.  There was a story of how one of them had dropped upon a hunter, coiled himself about his neck and strangled him.

This young man of six remembered how, one day, three years back, before he had assumed trousers or become familiar with all the affairs of the world, he was alone in the house, his mother having gone into the little garden.  He remembered how, looking up, he saw, lifted above the doorsill, a head with beady, glittering eyes, and how, after a moment’s survey, the head was lifted higher and there came gliding over the floor toward him a black monster, with darting tongue and long, curved body and evident fierce intent.  He remembered how he leaped for a high stool which served him at the table, how he clambered to its top and there set up a mighty yell for succor—­for he had great lungs.  He could, by shutting his eyes, even now, see his mother as she came running from the garden, see her look of terror as she caught sight of the circling thing upon the floor, and then the look of desperation as the mother instinct rose superior and she dashed into the room, seized the great iron shovel that stood before the fireplace, and began dealing reckless blows at the hissing serpent.  A big black-snake is not a pleasant customer, but neither—­for a black-snake—­is a frenzied mother with an iron fire shovel in her hand, and this particular snake turned tail, a great deal of it, by the way, since it extended to its head, and disappeared over the doorsill in a cataract of black and into the wood again.

From that hour the individual so beleaguered on a stool had been no friend of snakes.  Talk about vendettas!  No Sicilian feud was ever bitterer or more relentlessly pursued, as the boy increased in size and confidence.  Scores of garter-snakes had been his victims; once even a milk-snake had yielded up the ghost, and once—­a great day that—­he had seen a black-snake in the open and had assailed it valorously with stones hurled from a distance.  When it came toward him he retreated, but did not abandon the bombardment, and finally drove it into