VIII. 



ROUND THE HUDSON. THE PANTHER AND fIB COB8. 



FOREST COOKERY. 



WE rose before the sun. The morning was calm 

 and pleasant. A gray mist, thin and transparent, 

 hung over the lake and crept slowly up the side' of 

 the hill. A loon was pluming himself a few rods 

 from the shore, and at intervals, lifting up his clarion 

 voice, that echoed like a bugle among the mountains. 

 We bathed and breakfasted, and once more embarked 

 for a cruise round the lake. 



" Pete Meigs," said Tucker, as we paddled leisurely 

 along, " was some in his day. He was an old man in 

 years, five and twenty year ago, but he was a wood 

 man to- the last. He killed a ten pronger, a fortnight 

 afore he died, and shot him through the head at 

 twenty rod. He dried up like a mullen stalk, and 

 without the aid of a doctor. I helped to bu r v 



