MUSIC IN THE WOODS. 401 



tain cliffs. The strains grew more distinct and clear, 

 until I was finally wide awake. I opened ray eyes on 

 the rough boards and logs that inclosed me, and knew 

 at once that I was in the heart of the Adirondack wil- 

 derness, on Forked Lake, upon which was but a single 

 hut, and that, the one I occupied ; and yet it could be 

 no delusion — the delicious prolonged notes of a French 

 horn were rilling all the air, and coming back in surpass- 

 ingly sweet echoes from the breast of the bold moun- 

 tain across the lake. You cannot imagine what strange, 

 mysterious feelings they awoke within me. It was a 

 plaintive air, that swept in sweet, softened gushes over 

 the water, and I lay and wondered if really invisible 

 fingers were playing it. In a few minutes it changed to 

 a wild and martial measure, that sent the echoes career- 

 ing along the mountain side, and ringing "away through 

 the far wilderness with startling clearness, and made the 

 blood leap as though a cavalry bugle was pealing the 

 charge. Hastily throwing on my hunting dress, I went 

 out, and there sat my host of the evening before, bare- 

 foot, with nothing but his shirt and pantaloons on, lean- 

 ing back against the log hut and pouring forth those 

 ravishing strains from a veritable French horn. He 

 was a tall, slender man, with splendid large dark eyes, 



