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.