Charles Egbert Craddock,
The bushwhackers & other stories
(1899)
“ Brices, who sat as of old, in the black shadows about the still.Whenever in the night-wrapped gorge a shrill cry is heard from the woods, or the wind strikes a piercing key, or the train thunders over the bridge with a wild shriek of whistles, and the rocks repeat it with a human tone in the echo, the simple foresters are wont to turn a trifle pale and to bar up the doors, declaring that the sound “air Painter Brice a-callin’ fur his brothers.” ”
