Thus, Perchance, The Indian Hunter,
Many A Lagging Year Agone,
Gliding O'er Thy Rippling Waters,
Lowly Hummed A Natural Song.
Now the sun's behind the willows,
Now he gleams along the waves,
Faintly o'er the wearied billows
Come the spirits of the braves.
Just before sundown we reached some more falls in the town of
Bedford, where some stone-masons were employed repairing the
locks in a solitary part of the river. They were interested in
our adventure, especially one young man of our own age, who
inquired at first if we were bound up to "'Skeag"; and when he
had heard our story, and examined our outfit, asked us other
questions, but temperately still, and always turning to his work
again, though as if it were become his duty. It was plain that
he would like to go with us, and, as he looked up the river, many
a distant cape and wooded shore were reflected in his eye, as
well as in his thoughts. When we were ready he left his work,
and helped us through the locks with a sort of quiet enthusiasm,
telling us that we were at Coos Falls, and we could still
distinguish the strokes of his chisel for many sweeps after we
had left him.
We wished to camp this night on a large rock in the middle of the
stream, just above these falls, but the want of fuel, and the
difficulty of fixing our tent firmly, prevented us; so we made
our bed on the main-land opposite, on the west bank, in the town
of Bedford, in a retired place, as we supposed, there being no
house in sight.
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