One of the most inexplicable of these mysteries was Old Zeb's own existence; and I had known him for a considerable time before I could unravel it. He stood six feet high in his boots of alligator-skin, into the ample tops of which were crowded the legs of his coarse "copperas" trousers; while his other garments were a deer-skin shirt, and a blanket coat that had once been green, but, like the leaves of the autumnal forest, had become sere and yellow. A slouched felt hat shaded his cheeks from the sun upon the rare occasions when Old Zeb strayed beyond the shadow of the "timber." Where and how he lived were the two points that most required explanation. In the tract of virgin forest where I usually met him, there was neither house nor hut. So said the people of Grand Gulf, the small town upon the Mississippi where I was staying. Yet Old Zeb had told me that in this forest was his "hum." It was only after our acquaintance had ripened into strong fellowship, that I had the pleasure of spending an hour under his humble roof. It consisted of the hollow trunk of a gigantic sycamore-tree, still standing and growing! Here Old Zeb found shelter for himself, his squaw,--as he termed Mrs. Stump,--his household goods, and the tough old nag that carried him in his wanderings. His establishment was no longer a puzzle,--though there was still the mystery of how he maintained it. A skilled hunter might easily procure food for himself and family; but even the hunter disdains a diet exclusively game. There were the coffee, the "pone" of corn-bread, the corn itself necessary for the "critter," the gown that wrapped the somewhat angular outlines of Mrs. Stump, and many other things that could not be procured by a rifle. Even the rifle itself required food not to be found in the forest. Presuming on our intimacy, I asked, "How do you manage to live? You don't appear to make anything, nor do I see any signs of cultivation. How then do you support yourselves?" "Them duds thar," answered my host, pointing to a corner of his tree-cabin. I looked and saw the skins of several animals,--among which I recognized those of the "painter," "possum," and "'coon," along with a haunch or two of recently killed venison. "I sell 'em, boy; the skins to the storekeepers, and the deer-meat to anybody as 'll buy it." Old Zeb's shooting appeared marvellous to me. He could "bark" a squirrel in the top of the tallest tree, or kill it by a bullet through its eye. He used to boast, in a quiet way, that he never spoilt a skin, though it was only that of a "contemptible squir'l."