"Ain't goin' ter come back fur two weeks."

"Whar 'bouts hev he gone?" asked Birt amazed.

"Dunno," responded the same little fellow.

"When did he set out?"

There was a meditative pause. Then ensued a jumbled bickering. The
small boys, the shoats, and the hound seemed to consult together in
the endeavor to distinguish "day 'fore yestiddy" from "las' week."
The united intellect of the party was inadequate.

"Dunno!" the mite of a spokesman at last admitted.

Birt rode on rapidly once more, leaving this choice syndicate
settling down again to the mud pies.

The woods gave way presently and revealed, close to a precipice,
Nate's home. The log house with its chimney of clay and sticks, the
barn of ruder guise, the fodder-stack, the ash-hopper, and the rail
fence were all imposed in high relief against the crimson west and
the purpling ranges in the distance. The little cabin was quite
alone in the world. No other house, no field, no clearing, was
visible in all the vast expanse of mountains and valleys which it
overlooked. The great panorama of nature seemed to be unrolled for
it only. The seasons passed in review before it. The moon rose,
waxing or waning, as if for its behoof. The sun conserved for it a
splendid state.