A young man, stepping lightly, came into a little glade. He was white, but
he brought with him no alien air. He was in full harmony with the primeval
woods, a part of them, one in whose ears the soft song of the leaves was a
familiar and loved tune. He was lean, but tall, and he walked with a
wonderful swinging gait that betokened a frame wrought to the strength of
steel by exercise, wind, weather, and life always in the open. Though his
face was browned by sun and storm his hair was yellow and his eyes blue.
He was dressed wholly in deerskin and he carried over his shoulder the
long slender rifle of the border. At his belt swung hatchet and knife.

There was a touch to the young man that separated him from the ordinary
woods rover. He held himself erect with a certain pride of manner. The
stock of his rifle, an unusually fine piece, was carved in an ornate and
beautiful way. The deerskin of his attire had been tanned with uncommon
care, and his moccasins were sewn thickly with little beads of yellow and
blue and red and green. Every piece of clothing was scrupulously clean,
and his arms were polished and bright.

The shiftless one--who so little deserved his name--paused a moment in the
glade and, dropping the stock of his rifle to the ground, leaned upon the
muzzle. He listened, although he expected to hear nothing save the song of
the leaves, and that alone he heard. A faint smile passed over the face of
Shif'less Sol. He was satisfied. All was happening as he had planned. Then
he swung the rifle back to his shoulder, and walked to the crest of a hill
near by.

The summit was bare and the shiftless one saw far. It was a splendid
rolling country, covered with forests of oak and elm, beech, hickory and
maple. Here and there faint threads of silver showed where rivers or
brooks flowed, and he drew a long deep breath. The measure of line and