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In writing to 
and droll” who were “louping and 
flinging” to the music of the devil’s 
pipes, in and out the “kirk.” So elo- 
quent was old Mac that my fancy pic- 
tured many unholy shapes in the 
shadows. 
But, to finish this part of my story, 
which includes the Scottish poet’s 
story, enough to say that Tam O’Shan- 
ter broke the witch’s spell when, on 
beholding one handsome woman among 
the rabble he broke into a shout, ‘Weel 
done, Cutty-sark!” At this cry “the 
hellish legion” made a rush for Tam 
and his mare. Tam turned the mare 
and fled, the mob of evil spirits at his 
heels. Meg, his pony, put her best 
foot foremost, and escaped with her 
master by crossing a stream of run- 
ning water over which evil spirits are 
not supposed to pass. It was only by 
a narrow margin that he escaped, how- 
ever, for Nannie, the woman who had 
caught Tam’s eye, caught the mare’s 
tail in a grip that pulled it off, just 
as they crossed the middle of the 
bridge. 
Mac closed his tale with true im- 
pressiveness, shaking a warning finger 
at me. 
“Now, who this tale of truth shall 
read, 
Ik man and mother’s son, take heed: 
Whene’er to Drink you are inclined, 
Or Cutty-sarks run in your mind, 
Think ye may buy the joys o’er dear: 
Remember Tam O’Shanter’s mare.” 
I was relieved when the story came 
to an end: but, it must be confessed, 
I enjoyed its morbid terrors. 
“Is it not a masterpiece?” queried 
Mac, as he reloaded his corn-cob. 
“It’s a veritable marrow-freezer the 
way you recite it, Mac. You must be 
dry after that. I’ll make a fresh brew 
of tea.” 
No, no; naething mair. I must be 
gangin’ back tae the cabin. You’ll 
come over and see me, laddie?” 
“T surely will, Mac. And I’m mighty 
glad to have found such a neighbor. 
I-hope that the next time you visit 
me it’ll be in my new cabin. I’ll walk 
with you down to the shore.” 
So together we walked to the bank, 
and descended past my spring of sweet 
water onto the beach. And there, 
seated on a pile of driftwood, we sat 
silently for many minutes, watching 
the moon as it rode above the Rocky 
Mountains into the heavens. The wa- 
ter was at half-tide, and very calm, 
and the moonlight sent a silvery path- 
way toward us. 
Suddenly Mac gently nudged me 
with his elbow, and by a motion of 
the head indicated that I should look 
past him at some object that had 
caught his attention. It was a raccoon 
on a forage. For what, it would be 
hard to say. He was walking along 
Advertisers mention Forest and Stream. 
an old log when I first saw him. 
When he reached the end of the log 
he paused, his sharp nose went up in 
the air and his head moved rhyth- 
mically from side to side, much as a 
bear may frequently be seen to act, 
Then he would quickly turn and go 
back along the log. This maneuver 
he executed several times. He then 
slid quietly from the log and nosed 
under it. Into the shadows he went, 
then out he came again. Then my 
mocassined foot slid on a round pebble 
which knocked against another. In- 
stantly Brer Coon was on the alert. 
He sighted us, and hastily ambled off 
into the darkness of the tree-covered 
embankment. 
“You'll be keeping chickens by-and- 
by, maybe?” 
“A lot of them, Mac. As soon as 
I’ve put up my cabin I’m going to build 
a chicken-coop of logs and get some 
poultry.” 
“Then you'll see more of our ring- 
tailed friend. I’ve got three of his 
brethren’s hides on my cabin wall. 
They like chickens, and they like them 
young.” 
Mac got up and pointed North along ~ 
the shore. 
“Gang that way, laddie, when you 
come to see me. You canna miss my 
domicile. It’s near the shore. I’ll be 
going. Good night, an’ thank you for 
your hospitality.” 
So McGregor strode away, and I 
watched him far down the beach be- 
fore I turned away from the fascina- 
tion of the moonlit water and ascended 
the bank to my tent. 
My campfire had burned quite low 
when I got back, and my first busi- 
ness was to build it up again so that 
its light would soften the sombre 
shadows of the surrounding woods. 
Mac’s tale had appealed rather 
strongly to my youthful imagination. 
Moreover, the thoughts of the panther 
I had seen were still very fresh and 
very vivid. I had no desire to get up 
in the morning and find Peter a “man- 
gled corpse,” nor, to use an Irishism, 
to waken up and find myself in the 
same condition. 
To-morrow would be Saturday, and 
I would ride home to get tools for my 
house-building—also a cross-cut saw. 
I might even feel safe in having my 
father order the lumber for my cabin, 
for I surely would have my trail com- 
pleted by Tuesday so that the lumber 
wagon could get in. 
I went into my tent and got beneath 
my blankets: but whether it was the 
hearty supper I had eaten, or whether 
my excited imagination was the cause, 
I do not know—I could not sleep. So 
I picked up a book and tried to read, 
but the firelight was not steady enough 
or strong enough to make reading 
easy. I had with me, however, a kero- 
Tt will identify you, 
“(aus 
