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It is the night of the first of December, 18—. The boys’ room is brilliantly illuminated by four large lamps suspended from the ceiling, and a cheerful wood fire is burning on the hearth, and around it is gathered a happy party consisting of all the members of the Sportsman’s Club. That broad-shouldered, sturdy-looking fellow who is sitting on one side of the centre-table with a book on his knee, and talking to the old negro who stands with his hand on the door-knob, is Walter Gaylord, the President of the Club. He and his companions have been discussing various plans for their amusement, and having decided to pass the next day in hunting coons, Walter is issuing his orders. “You’re sure the weather will be favorable, are you, Sam?” he asks.

“Yes, sar; sartin ob it,” replies the negro. “It’s snowin’ now, fast. It’s boun’ to snow all night, and to-morrow’ll be just de day for tracking de coon.”

“Well, then, we’ll start as soon after daylight as we can get ready. We shall want a warm breakfast before we go.”