"The surveyor he misdoubted, an' 'lowed ez gold hed never been fund
in these parts. He said they fund gold in them mountings furder
east 'bout twenty odd year ago--in 1831, I believe he said. He
'lowed them mountings hain't got no coal like our'n hev, an' the
Cumberland Mountings hain't got no gold. An' then in a minit he tuk
ter misdoubtin' on the t'other side o' his mouth. He 'lowed ez
Nate's min'ral MOUGHT be gold, an' then ag'in it moughtn't."

The essential difference between these two extremes has afforded
scope for vacillation to more consistent men than the surveyor.

"Thar's the grant right now, in the pocket o' Nate's coat," said
Tim, shifting the garment on his arm to show a stiff, white folded
paper sticking out of the breast pocket. "I reckon when he tole me
ter tote his gun an' coat home, he furgot the grant war in his
pocket, 'kase he fairly dotes on it, an' won't trest it out'n his
sight."

Nate was in the habit of exacting similar services from his
acquiescent younger brother, and Tim had his hands full, as he tried
to hold the gun, and turn the coat on his arm. He finally hung the
garment on a peg in the shed, and shouldered the weapon. Suddenly
he whirled around toward Rufe, who was still standing by.

"What in the nation air inside o' that thar boy?" he exclaimed. "A
chicken, ain't it?"

For a musical treble chirping was heard proceeding apparently from
Rufe's pocket. This chicken differed from others that Rufe had put