d
slides where avalanches of bowlders and earth from the top had ploughed
heavily downward, sweeping away all growth.

Cyrus lifted his hat, and waved it at the distant mass.

"Hurrah!" he cried. "There's the home of storms! There's old Katahdin!
The Indians named it Ktaadn 'the biggest mountain.'"

"Want to hear the Indian legend about it, lads?" asked Dr. Phil.

A general chirp of assent was his reply, and the doctor began:--

"Well, when the redskins owned these forests, they believed that the
summit of Katahdin was the home of their evil spirit, or, as they call
him, 'The Big Devil.' He was named Pamolah. And he was a mighty
unpleasant sort of neighbor. Once, so tradition says, he ran away with a
beautiful Indian maiden, and carried her up to his lonely lair among
those peaks. When her tribe tried to rescue her, he let loose great
storms upon them, his artillery being thunder, lightning, hail, and
rain, before which they were forced to flee helter-skelter. An old red
chief long ago told me the story, and added gravely that 'it was sartin
true, for han'some squaw always catch 'em debil.'

"The foundation of the legend lies in the fact that there really is a
very curious granite basin among Katahdin's peaks, and it is the
birthplace of most storms which sweep over our State. I myself have
seen clouds forming in it, when I made an ascent of the mountain in my
younger days, and whirling out in all directions. The roar of its winds
may sometimes be heard miles away. There are several ponds in the basin;
one of them, a tiny, clear lake, without any visible outlet, is
Pamolah's fishing-ground. That's the yarn about the mountain as I heard
it."

[Illustration: IN THE SHADOW OF THE KATAHDIN.]

"Ain't it a'most time for us to be gittin' down from this Horseback,
Doc?" asked Joe, who had been listening with the others. "I thought we'd
reach the farm you're heading for to-night, but we're half a dozen miles
off it yet; and we can't do more'n another mile or two afore it'll be
time to halt and make camp. There's some pretty bad travelling and a
plaguy bit of swamp ahead."

"I guess you're about right, Joe," said Doc, rising with alacrity from
the stone where he had seated himself while telling his yarn.

Joe's bad travelling meant a great deal of tripping and floundering
through soft mud and mire, with slippery moss-stones sandwiched in, and
dwarfed bushes which ran along the ground, and twisted themselves in an
almo