124 



CAMPS IN THE CARIBBEES. 



Soon, the many voices blended into one, and I was 

 asleep. Wrapped in my blanket, my gun by my side, 

 and my two Indians stretched in slumber near me, I 

 slept long and soundly, nor stirred till near morning. 

 It may have been an hour before daylight, as I lay 

 in that half conscious state that sometimes precedes 

 awaking, I heard distinctly the ringing of steel upon 

 steel, echo through the forest. Listening dreamily, 

 I heard it again — cling, clang I Instantly I was 

 transported to another clime, and the forest and its 

 tropical wonders faded away. I was in a little New 

 England town, in the shop of the village blacksmith, 

 with the old mare I used to drive waiting for a shoe. 

 It was a hot, sultry day in July, the hay-makers were 

 sweltering in the sun, and the leaves on the trees stood 

 still. Cling, clang, cling! I saw the old blacksmith 

 smiting the shoe as he fashioned it, and heard the 

 metallic ring as the hammer fell with a half-blow upon 

 the anvil. Cling I — " Monsieur ! " 



" What — what's the matter? " 



" Monsieur," — it was Coryet who spoke — " you 

 no hear ze blacksmit? " 



" The blacksmith ! ah, yes ; but where is he? " 



" Oh, m'sieur, he no on ze terre, he en haut in ze 

 tree." 



w In the tree ! A blacksmith in a tree? " 



" Oui, m'sieur, mais he no blacksmit veritable, he 

 inseck ; he make ze noise wiz hees weeng." 



Now I saw it clearly, it was one of those cicadas, 

 or a cricket, which produces such a noise by rubbing 

 together the heel-plates of its wings. Thus was my 

 pleasant dream dissipated. It was now about sunrise, 

 though it would be long before the sun could pene- 



