“Schunemunk is full of rattlers,” Junior said.

“Please don’t hunt there any more then,” I replied.

“No, we’ll go into the main Highlands to the east’ard next time.”

Merton had also brought down a chicken hawk; and the game, spread out on the kitchen table, suggested much interesting wild life, about which I said we should read during the coming winter, adding:  “Well, boys, you have more than earned your salt in your sport to-day, for each of you has supplied two game dinners.  We shall live like aldermen now, I suppose.”

“Yes,” cried Merton, “whether you call me ‘pot-hunter’ or not, I mean my gun to pay its way.”

“I’ve no objections to that,” was my laughing answer, “as long as you shoot like a sportsman, and not like a butcher.  Your guns, boys, will pay best, however, in making you strong, and in giving you some well-deserved fun after your busy summer.  I feel that you have both earned the right to a good deal of play this month, and that you will study all the harder for it by and by.”

“I hope you’ll talk father into that doctrine,” said Junior, as he sat down to supper with us.

The boys were drowsy as soon as they had satisfied their keen appetites, and Mousie laughed at them, saying that she had been reading how the boa-constrictor gorged himself and then went to sleep, and that they reminded her of the snake.

“I guess I’ll go home after that,” said Junior.

“Now you know I was only poking a little fun,” said Mousie, ruefully, as she ran into the kitchen and gathered up his game for him, looking into his face so archly and coaxingly that he burst out:  “You beat all the game in the country.  I’ll shoot a blue jay, and give you its wings for your hat, see if I don’t;” and with this compliment and promise he left the child happy.

Merton was allowed to sleep late the next morning, and was then set to work in the orchard, I dividing my time between aiding in picking the apples and turning over the fodder corn.

“You can climb like a squirrel, Merton, and I must depend on you chiefly for gathering the apples.  Handle them like eggs, so as not to bruise them, and then they will keep better.  After we have gone over the trees once and have stacked the fodder corn you shall have a good time with your gun.”

For the next few days we worked hard, and nearly finished the first picking of the apples, also getting into shocks the greater part of the corn.  Then came a storm of wind and rain, and the best of the apples on one tree, which, we had neglected, were soon lying on the ground, bruised and unfit for winter keeping.

“You see, Merton,” I said, “that we must manage to attend to the trees earlier next year.  Live and learn.”

The wind came out of the north the day after the storm, and Mr. Jones shouted, as he passed down the road, “Hard frost to-night!”

Then indeed we bustled around.  Mousie’s flowers were carried in, the Lima-bean poles, still hanging full of green pods more or less filled out, were pulled up and stacked together under a tree, some tomato-vines, with their green and partially ripe fruit, were taken up by the roots and hung under the shed, while over some other vines a covering was thrown toward night.