SILAS STRONG, or "Panther Sile," as the hunters called him, spent every winter in the little forest hamlet of Pitkin and every summer in the woods.

Lawrence County was the world, and game, wood, and huckleberries the fulness thereof; all beyond was like the reaches of space unexplored and mysterious. God was only a word—one may almost say—and mostly part of a compound adjective; hell was Ogdensburg, to which he had once journeyed; and the devil was Colonel Jedson. This latter opinion, it should be said, grew out of an hour in which the Colonel had bullied him in the witness-chair, and not to any lasting resemblance.

As to Ogdensburg itself, the hunter had based his judgment upon evidence which, to say the least, was inconclusive. When Sile and the city first met, they regarded each other with extreme curiosity. A famous hunter, as he moved along the street with rifle, pack, and panther-skin, Sile was trying to see everything, and everything seemed to be trying to see Sile. The city was amused while the watchful eye of Silas grew weary and his bosom filled with distrust. One tipsy man offered him a jack-knife as a compliment to the length of his nose, and before he could escape a new acquaintance had wrongfully borrowed his watch. His conclusions regarding the city were now fully formed. He broke with it suddenly, and struck out across country and tramped sixty miles without a rest. Ever after the thought of Ogdensburg revived memories of confusion, headache, and irreparable loss. So, it is said, when he heard the minister describing hell one Sunday at the little school-house in Pitkin, he had no doubt either of its existence or its location.

All this, however, relates to antecedent years of our history—years which may not be wholly neglected if one is to understand what follows them.

After the death of his sister—the late Mrs. Gordon—Strong began to read his Bible and to cut his trails of thought further and further towards his final destination. A deeper reverence and a more correct notion of the devil rewarded his labor.

It must be added that his meditations led him to one remarkable conclusion—namely, that all women were angels. His parents had left him nothing save a maiden sister named Cynthia, and characterized by some as "a reg'lar human panther."

"Wherever Sile is they's panthers," said a guide once, in the little store at Pitkin.

"Don't make no dif'er'nce whuther he's t' home er in the woods," said another, solemnly.

That was when God owned the wilderness and kept there a goodly number of his big cats, four of which had fallen before the rifle of Strong.

Cynthia, in his view, had a special sanctity, but there was another woman whom he regarded with great tenderness—a cheery-faced maiden lady of his own age and of the name of Annette.

To Silas she was always Lady Ann. He gave her this title without any thought or knowledge of foreign customs. "Miss Roice" would have been too formal, and "Ann" or "Annette" would have been too familiar. "Lady Ann" seemed to have the proper ring of respect, familiarity, and distinction. In his view a "lady" was a creature as near perfection as anything could be in this world.

When a girl of eighteen she had taught in the log school-house. Since the death of her mother the care of the little home had fallen upon her. She was a well-fed, cheerful, and comely creature with a genius for housekeeping.

June had come, and Silas was getting ready to go into camp. There was no longer any peace for him in the clearing. The odor of the forest and the sight of the new leaves gave him no rest. Had he not heard in his dreams the splash of leaping trout, and deer playing in the lily-pads? In the midst of his preparations, although a silent man, the tumult of joy in his breast came pouring out in the whistled refrain of "Yankee Doodle." It was a general and not a special sense of satisfaction which caused him to shake with laughter now and then as he made his way along the rough road. Sometimes he rubbed his long nose thoughtfully.

A nature-loving publisher, who often visited his camp, had printed some cards for him. They bore these modest words:

S. STRONG

GUIDE AND CONTRIVER

He was able in either capacity, but his great gift lay in tongue control—in his management of silence. He was what they called in that country "a one-word man." The phrase indicated that he was wont to express himself with all possible brevity. He never used more than one word if that could be made to satisfy the demands of politeness and perspicacity. Even though provocation might lift his feeling to high degrees of intensity, and well beyond the pale of Christian sentiment, he was never profuse.

His oaths would often hiss and hang fire a little, but they were in the end as brief and emphatic as the crack of a rifle. This trait of brevity was due, in some degree, to the fact that he stammered slightly, especially in moments of excitement, but more to his life in the silence of the deep woods.

Silas Strong had filled his great pack at the store and was nearing his winter home—a rude log-house in the little forest hamlet. He let the basket down from his broad back to the doorstep. His sister Cynthia, small, slim, sternfaced, black-eyed, heart and fancy free, stood looking down at him.

"Wal, what now?" she demanded, in a voice not unlike that of a pea-hen.

"T'-t'-morrer," he stammered, in a loud and cheerful tone.

"What time to-morrer?"

"D-daylight."

"I knew it," she snapped, sinking into a chair, the broom in her hands, and a woful look upon her. "You've got t' hankerin'."

Silas said nothing, but entered the house and took a drink of water. Cynthia snapped:

"If I wanted t' marry Net Roice I'd marry 'er an' not be dilly-dallyin' all my life."

Cynthia was now fifty years of age, and regarded with a stern eye every act of man which bore any suggestion of dilly-dallying.

"Ain't g-good'nough," he stammered, calmly.

"You're fool 'nough," she declared, with a twang of ill-nature.

"S-supper, Mis' Strong," said he, stirring the fire.

Whenever his sister indulged in language of unusual loudness and severity he was wont to address her in a gentle tone as "Mis' Strong"—the only kind of retaliation to which he resorted. He shortened the "Miss" a little, so that his words might almost be recorded as "Mi' Strong." In those rare and cheerful moments when her mood was more in harmony with his own he called her "Sinth" for short. In his letters, which were few, he had addressed her as "deer sinth." She was, therefore, a compound person, consisting of a severe and dissenting character called "Mis' Strong," and a woman of few words and a look of sickliness and resignation who answered to the pseudonyme of "Sinth."

Born and brought up in the forest, there was much in Silas and Cynthia that suggested the wild growth of the woodland. Their sister—the late Mrs. Gordon—had beauty and a head for books. She had gone to town and worked for her board and spent a year in the academy. Silas and Cynthia, on the other hand, were without beauty or learning or refinement, nor had they much understanding of the laws of earth or heaven, save what nature had taught them; but the devotion of this man to that querulous little wild-cat of a sister was remarkable. She was to him a sacred heritage. For love of her he had carried with him these ten years a burden, as it were, of suppressed and yearning affection. Silas Strong alone might even have been "good enough," in his own estimation, but he accepted "Mis' Strong" as a kind of flaw in his own character.

Every June he went to his camp at Lost River, taking Sinth to cook for him, and returning in the early winter. Next day, at sunrise, they were to start for the woods.

To-day he helped to get supper, and, having wiped the dishes, put on his best suit, his fine boots, his new felt hat, and walked a mile to the little farm of Uncle Ben Roice. He carried with him a gray squirrel in a cage, and, as he walked, sang in a low voice:

"All for the love of a charmin' creature,

All for the love of a lady fair."

It was like any one of a thousand visits he had made there. Annette met him at the door.

"Why, of all things!" said she. "What have you here?"

"C'ris'mus p-present, Lady Ann," said he.

It should be said that with Silas a gift was a "Christmas present" every day in the year—the cheerful spirit of that time being always with him.

He proudly put the cage in her hands.

"Much obliged to you, Sile," said she, laughing.

"S-Strong's ahead!" he stammered, cheerfully.

This indicated that in his fight with the powers of evil Strong felt as if he had at least temporary advantage. When, perhaps, after a moment of anger it seemed that the Evil One had got the upper hold on him, he was wont to exclaim, "Satan's ahead!" But the historian is glad to say that those occasions were, in the main, rare and painful.

"Strong will never give in," said Annette, with laughter.

Strong's affection was expressed only in signs and tokens. Of the former there were his careful preparation for each visit, and many sighs and blushes, and now and then a tender glance of the eye. Of tokens there had been many—a tame fox, ten mink-skins, a fawn, a young thrush, a pancake-turner carved out of wood, and other important trifles. For twenty years he had been coming, but never a word of love had passed between them.

Silas sat in a strong wooden chair. Under the sky he never thought of his six feet and two inches of bone and muscle; now it seemed to fill his consciousness and the little room in which he sat. To-day and generally he leaned against the wall, a knee in his hands as if to keep himself in proper restraint.

"Did you just come to bring me that squirrel?" Annette inquired.

"No," he answered.

"What then?"

"Squirrel come t' b-bring me."

"Silas Strong!" she exclaimed, playfully, amazed by his frankness.

He put his big hand over his face and enjoyed half a minute of silent laughter.

"Silas Strong!" she repeated.

"Present,"'said he, as if answering the call of the roll, and sobering as he uncovered his face.

In conversation Silas had a way of partly closing one eye while the other opened wide beneath a lifted brow. The one word of the Emperor was inadequate. He was, indeed, present, but he was extremely happy also, a condition which should have been freely acknowledged. It must be said, however, that his features made up in some degree for the idleness of his tongue. He brushed them with a downward movement, of his hand, as if to remove all traces of levity and prepare them for their part in serious conversation.

"All w-well?" he inquired, soberly.

"Eat our allowance," said she, sitting near him. "How's Miss Strong?"

"S-supple!" he answered. Then he ran his fingers through his blond hair and soberly exclaimed, "Weasels!"

This remark indicated that weasels had been killing the poultry and applying stimulation to the tongue of Miss Strong. Silas had sent her fowls away to market the day before.

"Too bad!" was the remark of Lady Ann.

"Fisht?" By this word Silas meant to inquire if she had been fishing.

"Yesterday. Over at the falls—caught ten," said she, getting busy with her knitting. "B-big?"

"Three that long," she answered, measuring with her thread.

He gave a loud whistle of surprise, thought a moment, and exclaimed, "M-mountaneyous!" He used this word when contemplating in imagination news of a large and important character.

"How have you been?"

"Stout," he answered, drawing in his breath.

Annette rose and seemed to go in search of something. The kindly gray eyes of Silas Strong followed her. A smile lighted up his face. It was a very plain face, but there was yet something fine about it, something which invited confidence and respect. The Lady Ann entered her own room, and soon returned.

"Shut yer eyes," said she.

"What f-for?"

"Chris'mas present."

Silas obeyed, and she thrust three pairs of socks into his coat-pocket. With a smile he drew them out. Then a partly smothered laugh burst from his lips, and he held his hand before his face and shook with good feeling.

"S-socks!" he exclaimed.

"There are two parts of a man which always ought to be kep' warm—his heart an' his feet," said she.

Silas whacked his knee with his palm and laughed heartily, his wide eye aglow with merriment. His expression quickly turned serious.

"B-bears plenty!" he exclaimed, as he felt of the socks and looked them over. This remark indicated that a season of unusual happiness and prosperity had arrived.

Worked in white yarn at the top of each leg were the words, "Remember me."

"T-till d-death," he whispered.

"With me on your mind an' them on your feet you ought to be happy," said Annette.

"An' w-warm," he answered, soberly.

Presently she read aloud to him from the St. Lawrence Republican.

"S-some day," said Silas, when at last he had risen to go.

"Some day," she repeated, with a smile.

The only sort of engagement between them lay in the two words "some day." They served as an avowal of love and intention. Amplified, as it were, by look and tone as well as by the pressure of the hand-clasp, they were understood of both.

To-day as Annette returned the assurance she playfully patted his cheek, a rare token of her approval.

Silas left her at the door and made his way down the dark road. He began to give himself some highly pleasing assurances.

"S-some day—tall t-talkin'," he stammered, in a whisper, and then he began to laugh silently.

"Patted my cheek!" he whispered. Then he laughed again.

At the store he had filled his pack with flour, ham, butter, and like provisions for Lost River camp. At Annette's he had filled his heart with renewed hope and happiness and was now prepared for the summer. While he walked along he fell to speculating as to whether Annette could live under the same roof with Cynthia. A hundred times he had considered whether he could ask her, and as usual he concluded, "Ca-can't."

The hunter had an old memorandum-book which was a kind of storehouse for thought, hope, and reflection. Therein he seemed always to regard himself objectively and spoke of Strong as if he were quite another person. Before going to bed that evening he made these entries:

"June the 23. Strong is all mellered up.

"Snags."

With him the word "meller" meant to soften, and sometimes, even, to conquer with the club.

The word "snags" undoubtedly bore reference to the difficulties that beset his way.

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