Part 28 (2/2)

”Now, you leetle boy,” said Drake, with a look of grave remonstrance, ”don't you go an' git impatient. Patience is one o' the backwoods vartues, without which you'll never git on at all. If you don't cultivate patience you may as well go an' live in the settlements or the big cities--where it don't much matter what a man is--but it'll be no use to stop in the wilderness. There's Leapin' Buck, now, a-sittin' as quiet as a Redskin warrior on guard! Take a lesson from him, lad, an'

restrain yourself. Well, as I was goin' to say, I was out settin' my traps somewheres about the head-waters o' the Yellowstone river at the time when I fell in wi' the critter. I couldn't rightly make out what he was, for, though I've seed mostly all sorts o' men in my day, I'd never met in wi' one o' this sort before. It wasn't his bodily shape that puzzled me, though that was queer enough, but his occupation that staggered me. He was a long, thin, spider-shaped article that seemed to have run to seed--all stalk with a frowsy top, for his hair was long an'

dry an' fly-about. I'm six-futt one myself, but my step was a mere joke to his stride! He seemed split up to the neck, like a pair o' human compa.s.ses, an' his clo's fitted so tight that he might have pa.s.sed for a livin' skeleton!

”Well, it was close upon sundown, an' I was joggin' along to my tent in the bush when I came to an openin' where I saw the critter down on one knee an' his gun up takin' aim at somethin'. I stopped to let him have his shot, for I count it a mortal sin to spoil a man's sport, an' I looked hard to see what it was he was goin' to let drive at, but never a thing could I see, far or near, except a small bit of a bird about the size of a big bee, sittin' on a branch not far from his nose an' c.o.c.kin'

its eye at him as much as to say, `Well, you air a queer 'un!'

`Surely,' thought I, `he ain't a-goin' to blaze at _that_!' But I'd scarce thought it when he did blaze at it an' down it came flop on its back, as dead as mutton!

”`Well, stranger,' says I, goin' for'ard, `you do seem to be hard up for victuals when you'd shoot a small thing like that!' `Not at all, my good man,' says he--an' the critter had a kindly smile an' a sensible face enough--`you must know that I am shootin' birds for scientific purposes. I am an ornithologist.'

”`Oh!' say I, for I didn't rightly know what else to say to that.

”`Yes,' says he; `an' see here.'

”Wi' that he opens a bag he had on his back an' showed me a lot o'

birds, big an' small, that he'd been shootin'; an' then he pulls out a small book, in which he'd been makin' picturs of 'em--an' r'ally I was raither took wi' that for the critter had got 'em down there almost as good as natur'. They actooally looked as if they was alive!

”`Shut the book, sir,' says I, `or they'll all escape!'

”It was only a small joke I meant, but the critter took it for a big 'un an' larfed at it till he made me half ashamed.

”`D'ye know any of these birds?' he axed, arter we'd looked at a lot of 'em.

”`Know 'em?' says I; `I should think I does! Why, I've lived among 'em ever since I was a babby!'

”`Indeed!' says he, an' he got quite excited, `how interestin'! An' do you know anythin' about their habits?'

”`If you mean by that their ways o' goin' on,' says I, `there's hardly a thing about 'em that I don't know, except what they _think_, an'

sometimes I've a sort o' notion I could make a pretty fair guess at that too.'

”`Will you come to my camp and spend the night with me?' he asked, gettin' more an' more excited.

”`No, stranger, I won't,' says I; `but if you'll come to mine I'll feed you an' make you heartily welcome,' for somehow I'd took quite a fancy to the critter.

”`I'll go,' says he, an' he went an' we had such a night of it! He didn't let me have a wink o' sleep till pretty nigh daylight the next mornin', an' axed me more questions about birds an' beasts an' fishes than I was iver axed before in the whole course o' my life--an' it warn't yesterday I was born. I began to feel quite like a settlement boy at school. An' he set it all down, too, as fast as I could speak, in the queerest hand-writin' you ever did see. At last I couldn't stand it no longer.

”`Mister Ornithologist' says I.

”`Well,' says he.

”`There's a pecooliar beast in them parts,' says I, `'as has got some pretty stiff an' settled habits.'

”`Is there?' says he, wakin' up again quite fresh, though he had been growin' sleepy.

”`Yes,' says I, `an' it's a obstinate sort o' brute that won't change its habits for n.o.body. One o' these habits is that it turns in of a night quite reg'lar an' has a good snooze before goin' to work next day.

Its name is Mahoghany Drake, an' that's me, so I'll bid you good-night, stranger.'

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