died, his house burned on a winter night, and he moved away in
discouragement, abandoning the property.

The clearing was known to all the boys of the locality as a
favorite haunt of foxes.

The next morning Sam's younger brother, John, Willis Murch and I
went up to the old barn to get powder-post. John had a small axe
with which to split the timbers, four old newspapers in which to
gather up the precious dust, and a bottle in which to put it.

It was Thanksgiving morning. The sun rose in a clear, straw-colored
sky. It was cold; the ground was frozen, and there was skating on
the small ponds.

Red squirrels were scolding on the borders of the wood-lots, and
blue jays came squalling into the orchards.

"This is a weather-breeder," grandmother remarked at breakfast.

Low down on the southern horizon, scarcely visible above the
hilltops, was a line of slate-gray cloud.

Willis and I were not sorry of an excuse for a jaunt through the
woods, for Willis owned a gun--an old army rifle bored out smooth
for shot. Our only anxiety was to get back in good season for
dinner. Thanksgiving dinner was always at three o'clock.

We set off immediately after breakfast. There was no need for haste
on Sam's account, for John told us that the cut foot was no longer