Forest leaves . mud, but no mud is immor-tal.—Newman. What fortunes are wasted by men and women who are struggling toknow those who are hardly worth knowing. This little world of ours is not growing worse to the man who isdoing his best to make it better.—Maclaughlin. >? ^ The deepest mysteries of life are explained, and the deepest problem*of life are solved, not by thinking but by living.—Mabie. FOREST LEAVES 33 Sebatos and the Panther. By Mary G. Manahan. While at Aiden Lair Lodge, in the heart of the Great North Woods,I chanced to fall in, as they term it. with a bunch of natives, among
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Forest leaves . mud, but no mud is immor-tal.—Newman. What fortunes are wasted by men and women who are struggling toknow those who are hardly worth knowing. This little world of ours is not growing worse to the man who isdoing his best to make it better.—Maclaughlin. >? ^ The deepest mysteries of life are explained, and the deepest problem*of life are solved, not by thinking but by living.—Mabie. FOREST LEAVES 33 Sebatos and the Panther. By Mary G. Manahan. While at Aiden Lair Lodge, in the heart of the Great North Woods, I chanced to fall in, as they term it. with a bunch of natives, amongwhom was an old guide close on to three score and ten. Once I over-came his shyness (and. by the way. the shyness of the Adirondack woods-man is equal to his proverbial independence ) he told us some mightilyinteresting stories of the days when the bear was plentiful as the deer andthe scream of the panther had not been silenced forever. I bed follered the trail for dayswith old Mitchell Sebatos, an hadnt. sighted a thin; he said. At last night closed in on us an we built afire to keep off the mosquitoes anturned in for the night. It was theblackest night I ever remember—nomoon nor stars, and the dark seemedto settle down like a mist, so thick youcould breathe it in. The very fireseemed to be agin us, for it sputteredan smouldered an just kept fromgoin out. an thats all. Maybee thed was damp, but it felt all rightwhen I piled it up an struck the flint.Old Sebatos giv one grunt anrolled himself over in his blanket.Sund asleep, not even a snore forcomnys sake! He was always aqueer duck, with them silent Indianways ohisn, but he was a born hunteran could follow a trail no mortal man could see. It was in his blood, theysaid. He was the last of the old tribe of St. Francis, an when yed seehim come 1 >pin down the mountain, toein in, with his gun in the hollowof his arm, like a baby, all lie lacked was a fe^, Sebatos. har and yed had ver chief. eagle feathers in his black