The puma or cougar or panther, sometimes spelled painter, is the American lion.  It is commonly called the mountain lion in the Northwest.  It belongs to the cat family, and received the name of lion from its tawny color.  When its appetite for blood has been satisfied, and its face is in repose, it is a very beautiful animal; but when seeking its prey it presents a mean, cowardly, stealthy appearance, and its face is a picture of cruelty and evil.  It will destroy as many as fifty sheep in a night, sucking their blood and leaving them as though they had died without any external injury.  This terrible animal is easily tamed if captured young, and, strange to say, becomes one of the most affectionate and devoted of pets.  It will purr about the feet and lick the hands of its master, and develop all the attractive characteristics of the domestic cat.

“We must have a puma-hunt,” said the chief, “now—­right away.”

“Not to-day?” said the teacher.

“Yes,” said the chief, “now—­he eat your children.  Find boy dead some day, just like cow.  He drop down from a tree on a papoose.  Benjamin and I will go hunt.”

[Illustration:  The mountain lion.]

The two disappeared.  For several days they did not return.  But, one morning, a party of Indians in hunting-gear came riding up to the school-house, full of gay spirits and heroic pride.  Behind them came the old chief on foot, moving slowly, as though tired, and with him was Benjamin.

The Indian boy had a brown skin of an animal on his shoulder—­a raw hide with very beautiful fur.

The old chief came into the school-room with an air of pride, and stood for a few minutes silent before the master.  His face, though wrinkled, was really beautiful and noble, in the light of the happy intelligence that awaited communication.  He at last looked each pupil in the face and then said: 

“We have killed the puma.  School no fear now.”

He took the skin of the animal from Benjamin’s shoulder, and held it up before the eyes of all.

“Boston tilicum, who killed the animal?” he said.

“It was you?” asked the teacher.

“No—­not me, not me, no!”

“The braves?”

“No—­not the braves.  No.”  The old chief paused, and then said: 

“Boston tilicum, it was Benjamin.  Treat him well.  He is good to me—­he mean well.  He likes you—­he die for you.  Tell the boys it was Benjamin.”

He turned away slowly, with a bearing of pride.  The Indian boy gave the puma’s skin to the master, and took his seat in silence.  There was a spirit in the strange scene that was touching, and the master’s lip quivered as he took the old chief’s hand that bright morning, as a parting sign of gratitude and good-will.  He felt the innate brotherhood of all human hearts, and returned to his desk happy in his calling and work; and seeing that the natural rights of all men were secured; and that the human heart has the same impulses everywhere, as he had never seen these truths before.