an' me dogs will meet you to-night at the nearest roastin'-ear patch,'
an' sure nuff _they'll_ keep the appointment."

"But they're around now, for we just heard one, _and there's
another_."

A long faint "_Lil--lil--lil--lil--lil--li-looo!_" now sounded
from the trees. It was like the other, but much softer and sweeter.

"There's where you fool yerself," replied Sam, "an' there's where many
a hunter is fooled. That last one's the call of a Screech Owl. You see
it's softer and whistlier than the Coon whicker."

They heard it again and again from the trees. It was a sweet musical
sound, and Yan remembered how squally the Coon call was in comparison,
and yet many hunters never learn the difference.

As they came near the tree whence the Owl called at intervals, a gray
blot went over their heads, shutting out a handful of stars for a
moment as it passed over them, but making no noise. "There he goes,"
whispered Sam. "That's the Screech Owl. Not much of a screech, was
it?" Not long afterward Yan came across a line of Lowell's which says,
"The song of the Screech Owl is the sweetest sound in nature," and
appreciated the absurdity of the name.

"I want to go on a Coon hunt," continued Yan, and the sentence was
just tinged with the deep-laid doggedness that was usually lost in his
courteous manner.

"That settles it," answered the other, for he was learning what that