They appeared unwilling to run
away in the deep snow, but would not let us approach near enough to see
them clearly through the bushes.
"You could shoot one of those deer," I said to Willis; but he declared
that he would never shoot a deer or a moose when it was snow-bound in a
yard.
We lingered near the yard for an hour or more. By speaking kindly to the
oxen I found that I could go very close to them; they had by no means
forgotten human beings. On our way back to Willis's camp he reminded me
of my promise. "Now, don't you tell where those oxen are; don't tell
anybody!"
"But, Willis, don't you think Jotham ought to know?" I asked.
"No, I don't!" Willis exclaimed. "He has abused those oxen enough!
They've got away from him, and I'm glad of it! I'll never tell him where
they are!"
We argued the question all the way to camp, and at last Willis said
bluntly that he should not have taken me to see them if he had thought
that I would tell. "You promised not to," said he. That was true, and
there the matter rested overnight.
When I started home the next morning Willis walked with me for two miles
or more. We had not mentioned Jotham's oxen since the previous
afternoon; but I plainly saw that Willis had been thinking the matter
over, for, after we separated and had each gone a few steps on his way,
he called after me:
"Are you going to tell about that?"
"No," said I, and walked on.
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