It appeared that Big Tom was a thriving man in the matter of family.  More boys appeared.  Only one was married, but four had “got their time.”  As night approached, and no Wilson, there was a good deal of lively and loud conversation about the stock and the chores, in all of which the girl took a leading and intelligent part, showing a willingness to do her share, but not to have all the work put upon her.  It was time to go down the road and hunt up the cows; the mule had disappeared and must be found before dark; a couple of steers hadn’t turned up since the day before yesterday, and in the midst of the gentle contention as to whose business all this was, there was an alarm of cattle in the corn-patch, and the girl started off on a run in that direction.  It was due to the executive ability of this small girl, after the cows had been milked and the mule chased and the boys properly stirred up, that we had supper.  It was of the oilcloth, iron fork, tin spoon, bacon, hot bread and honey variety, distinguished, however, from all meals we had endured or enjoyed before by the introduction of fried eggs (as the breakfast next morning was by the presence of chicken), and it was served by the active maid with right hearty good-will and genuine hospitable intent.

While it was in progress, after nine o’clock, Big Tom arrived, and, with a simple greeting, sat down and attacked the supper and began to tell about the bear.  There was not much to tell except that he hadn’t seen the bear, and that, judged by his tracks and his sloshing around, he must be a big one.  But a trap had been set for him, and he judged it wouldn’t be long before we had some bear meat.  Big Tom Wilson, as he is known all over this part of the State, would not attract attention from his size.  He is six feet and two inches tall, very spare and muscular, with sandy hair, long gray beard, and honest blue eyes.  He has a reputation for great strength and endurance; a man of native simplicity and mild manners.  He had been rather expecting us from what Mr. Murchison wrote; he wrote (his son had read out the letter) that Big Tom was to take good care of us, and anybody that Mr. Murchison sent could have the best he’d got.

Big Tom joined us in our room after supper.  This apartment, with two mighty feather-beds, was hung about with all manner of stuffy family clothes, and had in one end a vast cavern for a fire.  The floor was uneven, and the hearthstones billowy.  When the fire was lighted, the effect of the bright light in the cavern and the heavy shadows in the room was Rembrandtish.  Big Tom sat with us before the fire and told bear stories.  Talk?  Why, it was not the least effort.  The stream flowed on without a ripple.  “Why, the old man,” one of the sons confided to us next morning, “can begin and talk right over Mount Mitchell and all the way back, and never make a break.”  Though Big Tom had waged a lifelong warfare with the bears, and taken the hide off at least a hundred of them,