MUSIC OF THE WIND. 199 



elapses when the murmur, the swell, the rush, and 

 the retreat, are repeated. If you abandon yourself 

 entirely to the mfluence, yon soon are lost in strange 

 illusions. I have lain and listened to the wind mov- 

 ing thus among the branches, until I fancied every 

 gust a troop of spirits, whose tread over the bending 

 tops I caught afar, and whose rapid approach I could 

 distinctly measure. My heart would throb and pulses 

 bound, as the invisible squadrons drew near, till as 

 their sounding chariots of air swept swiftly overhead, 

 I ceased listening, and turned to look. Thus troop 

 after troop, they came and went on their mysterious 

 mission — waking the solitude into sudden life, as they 

 passed, and filling it with glorious melody. 



From such a state of reverie I was once aroused by 

 my Indian guide quietly saying, "It blows most too 

 hard to fish to-night." Oh, yes, it blows too hard : ye 

 splendid train of spirits treading the soft and velvet 

 bosom of the boundless forest, and with ten times ten 

 thousand branches and twigs and leaves for harp 

 strings, discoursing sweet music, you march alto- 

 gether too heavily, and sing too loudly for good fish- 

 ing. Oood Mitchell, you are right ; those spirits have 

 kicked the lake all into a bubble. Wc both have 



