Here was no blare of trumpets or call of bugles. It was the music of the
dance and the sentimental old songs of the South, nearly all of which had
a sad and wailing note. Harry heard the four black men play the songs
that he had heard Samuel Jarvis sing, deep in the Kentucky mountains,
and his heart beat with an emotion that he could not understand. Was
it a cry for peace? Did his soul tell him that an end should come to
fighting? Then throbbed the music of the lines:
Soft o'er the fountain lingering falls the Southern moon
Far o'er the mountain breaks the day too soon.
In thy dark eyes' splendor, where the moonlight loves to dwell
Weary looks, yet tender, speak their fond farewell.
Nita, Juanita! Ask thy soul if we should part,
Nita, Juanita! Lean thou on my heart!
The music of the sad old song throbbed and throbbed, and sank deep into
Harry's heart. At another time he might not have been stirred, but at
this moment he was responsive in every fiber. He saw once more the green
wilderness, and he heard once more the mellow tones of the singer coming
back in far echoes from the gorges.
"Nita, Juanita! Ask thy soul if we should part," hummed Dalton, but
Harry was still far away in the green wilderness, listening to the singer
of the mountains.
Pages:
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240