And suiting the action to the word, which, by
the by, adds marvellously to its effect, they sung it charmingly. I
couldn't resist their entreaties to join in it, although I would
infinitely have preferred listening to taking a part. When we
concluded it, Jessie said it was much prettier in her native tongue,
and sung a verse in her own language. She said the governor of the
fort, who spoke Indian as well as English, had arranged the words for
it, and when she was a child in his family, she learned it. "Listen,"
said she, "what is that?"
It was Jackson playing on the key-bugle. Oh, how gloriously it
sounded, as its notes fell on the ear, mellowed and softened by the
distance. When Englishmen talk of the hunters' horn in the morning,
they don't know what they are a saying of. It's well enough I do
suppose in the field, as it wakes the drowsy sportsman, and reminds
him that there is a hard day's ride before him. But the lake and the
forest is nature's amphitheatre, and it is at home there. It won't
speak as it can do at all times and in all places; but it gives its
whole soul out in the woods; and the echoes love it, and the mountains
wave their plumes of pines to it, as if they wanted to be wooed by its
clear, sweet, powerful notes.1 All nature listens to it, and keeps
silence, while it lifts its voice on high. The breeze wafts its music
on its wings, as if proud of its trust; and the lake lies still, and
pants like a thing of life, as if its heart beat to its tones.
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