They described the terrors of the night of the slide. The rain
was pouring in torrents, the soil began to slide from the tops
of the rocks, taking with it trees, boulders, and all in its
way; the crashing and thundering were terrible. Three weeks
later the entire family, nine in number, in fleeing to a place
of refuge, were overtaken by a second slide and all buried.

The notch was then as nature made it; no steam whistle or car
clatter had intruded upon its solitude. The first moving object
we saw after passing through was a man in the distance. He
proved to be Ethan Crawford, who kept the only house of
entertainment. He was walking leisurely, drawing a rattlesnake
along by its tail. He had killed the creature and was taking it
home as a trophy. He was a stalwart man, who had always lived
among the mountains, and had become as familiar with the wild
beasts as with the cat and dog of his own home. He said that
only a few days before he had passed a bear drinking at a
spring. He led the way to his house, a common farmhouse without
paint, or carpet, or cushioned seat. The landlady was spinning
wool in the kitchen.

Mr. Crawford supplied the table when he could by his gun or
fishing-rod; otherwise the fare was meagre. When asked for
mustard for the salt meat, they said they had none, at least in
the house, but they had some growing.

A young turkey halted about in the dining-room gobbling in a
noisy way, and the girl in attendance was requested by Mr.
Webster, with imperturbable gravity, either to kindly take it