He looked at it for a moment, his eyes glowing in the contemplation of a splendid possibility.

What were those old stories that his father used to tell of the gold excitement in Tennessee in 1831, when the rich earth flung largess from its hidden wealth along the romantic banks of Coca Creek!  Gold had been found in Tennessee—­why not here?  And once—­why not again?

The idea so possessed him that while he was skinning the fox his sharp knife almost sacrificed one of the two ears imperatively required by the statute, in order that the wily hunter may not be tempted to present one ear at a time, thus multiplying red foxes and premiums therefor like Falstaff’s “rogues in buckram.”

He took his way homeward through the darkening woods, carrying the pelt in his hand.  It was not long before he could hear the dogs barking, and as he came suddenly upon a little clearing in the midst of the dense, encompassing wilderness, he saw them all trooping down from the unenclosed passage between the two log-rooms which constituted the house.  An old hound had half climbed the fence, but as he laid his fore-paw on the topmost rail, his deep-mouthed bay was hushed,—­he was recognizing the approaching step of his master.  The yellow curs were still insisting upon a marauder theory.  One of them barked defiance as he thrust his head between the rails of the fence.  There was another head thrust through too, about on a level with Towser’s, but it was not a dog’s head.  As Birt caught a glimpse of it, he called out hastily, “Stand back thar, Tennessee!” And then it was lost to view, for at the sound of his voice all the dogs came huddling over the bars, shrilly yelping a tumultuous welcome.

When Birt had vaulted over the fence, the little object withdrew its head from between the rails and came trotting along beside him, holding up its hand to clasp his.

His mother, standing in the passage, her tall, thin figure distinct in the firelight that came flickering out through the open door, soliloquized querulously:  —

“Ef that thar child don’t quit that fool way o’ stickin’ her head a-twixt the rails ter watch fur her brother, she’ll git cotched thar some day like a peeg in a pen, an’ git her neck bruk.”

Birt overheard her.  “Tennessee air too peart ter git herself hurt,” he said, a trifle ashamed of his ready championship of his little sister, as a big rough boy is apt to be of gentler emotions.

If ever infancy can be deemed uncouth, she was an uncouth little atom of humanity.  Her blue checked homespun dress, graced with big horn buttons, descended almost to her feet.  Her straight, awkwardly cropped hair was of a nondescript shade pleasantly called “tow.”  As she came into the light of the fire, she lifted wide black eyes deprecatingly to her mother.

“She ain’t pretty, I know, but she air powerful peart,” Birt used to say so often that the phrase became a formula with him.