'But,' thinks I, ''twon't do to run away
the fust lick:' so I held on, and pooty soon it come agin. This time
I listened sharp, and had my wits about me; so that, when it wor
through, I clim' right up to the top uv the ledge, and looked down
into the valley, hollerin'--
"'Who be you? Is any one thar?'
"A voice answered, faint and weak; but what it said, or whar it was,
I couldn't for the life of me tell.
"So I hollered agin,--
"'Whar be you, stranger? Holler as loud as you kin!'
"The voice answered back; and I heerd my own name, and, as I
thought, in a voice that turned me as sick and weak as a gal.
"It was Harnah's voice; and my first idee was that she wor dead, and
wor ha'nting me.
"'Harnah!' says I, soft and low, 'is it you?'
"There wa'n't no answer, but another groan, and along of it a
curious kind of noise, like a lot of cats all growling together. I
knowed that noise; and, afore it eended, I knowed whar it come from.
And, all to once, the hull story come to me: Harnah was down thar in
a painter's den; and the kittens was a-growling round her. The old
ones must be away, or one of 'em would 'a been out to see to me
afore this.
"I hadn't the fust thing in the way of a we'pon with me; but there
was plenty of stones down in the hollow, and I cut a good
oak-sapling with my jack-knife.
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