Not long ago I wandered back to the scenes of my boyhood, on my father's old plantation on the bank of the river, in the beautiful land of my native mountains. I rambled again in the pathless woods with my rifle on my shoulder. I sat on the old familiar logs amid the falling leaves of autumn and heard the squirrels bark and shake the branches as they jumped from tree to tree. I heard the katydid sing, and the whip-poor-will, and the deep basso-profundo of the bullfrog on the bank of the pond. I heard the drumming of a pheasant and the hoot of a wise old owl away over in "Sleepy Hollow." I heard the tinkling of bells on the distant hills, sweetly mingling with the happy chorus of the song birds in their evening serenade. Every living creature seemed to be chanting a hymn of praise to its God; and as I sat there and listened to the weird, wild harmonies, a vision of the past opened before me. I thought I was a boy again, and played around the cabins of the old time darkies, and heard them laugh and sing and tell their stories as they used to long ago. My hair stood on ends again (I was afflicted with hair when I was a boy), and the chills played up and down my back when I remembered old Uncle Rufus' story of the panthers. He said: "Many years ago, Mas. Jeems was a-gwine along de path by de graveyard late in de evenin', an' bless de Lo'd, all of a sudden he looked up, an' dar was a painter crouchin' down befo' 'im, a-pattin' de ground wid his tail, an' ready to spring. Mas. Jeems wheeled to run, an' bless de Lo'd, dar was annudder painter, crouchin' an' pattin' de groun' wid his tail, in de path behind him, an' ready to spring. An' boaf ov dem painters sprung at de same time, right toards Mas. Jeemses head; Mas. Jeems jumped to one side. An' dem painters come to-gedder in de air. An' da was a-gwine so fast, an' da struck each udder wid sitch turble ambition dat instid ov comin' down, da went up. An' bless de Lo'd, Mas. Jeems stood dar an' watched dem painters go on up, an' up, an' up, till da went clean out o' sight a-fightin'. An' bless de Lo'd, de hair was a-fallin' for three days. Which fulfills de words ob de scripchah whar it reads, 'De young men shall dream dreams, an' de ol' men shall see visions.'" [Illustration: THE MUSIC OF THE OLD PLANTATION.]