reached a ridge covered with hickory and pecan-trees.

"Here we are," he exclaimed, as he leaned on his gun, and wiped his
forehead with his coat-sleeve. "There are plenty of squirrels around here.
But I'm hungry; we have plenty of time to eat some breakfast before we
begin."

They seated themselves under the branches of some small hickories, and
Simpson produced from a basket some salt pork, hard crackers, and a bottle
of cold coffee. Their long walk had given them good appetites, and the
meal, homely as it was, was eaten with a relish. After they had rested a
few moments, they started off in different directions, to commence the
hunt. As Frank walked slowly along, with his gun on his shoulder, he could
not help thinking of the many times he had been on such excursions about
his native village. What a change a year had made! The "Boys of Lawrence"
were no longer amateur sportsmen. They were scattered all over the
country, engaged in the work of sustaining the integrity of the best
government on earth. Would they ever all meet again? It was not at all
likely. Perhaps some had already been offered up on the altar of their
country; and if he should ever live to return home, there would be some
familiar faces missing. In short, Frank was homesick. Finding himself once
more in his favorite element had made him think of old times. He wandered
slowly along, recalling many a fishing frolic and boat-race he had engaged
in, until a loud chatter above his head roused him from his reverie. He
looked up just in time to see a large squirrel striving to hide himself
among the leaves on a tree that stood close by. Frank's gun was at his
shoulder in a moment, and taking a quick aim at the squirrel, he pulled
the trigger. But the old Springfield musket was not intended for fine
shooting; for, though the shot cut the leaves all around, the squirrel
escaped unhurt, and, running up to the topmost branch, again concealed