MAGNUS, THE GREAT BUFFALO HUNTER. 313 



our wagon was cleared, and the things under cover, S. 

 returned with the two drivers for another load, leaving 

 me in the house alone. It was in the midst of a thick 

 forest, with a field of about seven acres, surrounded bj 

 the largest trees. But I had not much time to contem- 

 plate the beauties of nature, for, in unloading and stow- 

 ing away, the hours had flown on the wings of the wind. 

 The sun had set before I had collected wood from the 

 forest to keep up a fire for the night, or had had time tc 

 prepare my supper ; the la,tter duty did not take long, 

 for my whole store of provisions consisted of maize flour, 

 dried venison, and wild honey. 



Darkness, thick darkness, lay upon the slumbering 

 earth : yielding up my imagination to the memorials of 

 old times. I drew the solitary chair to the blazing fire, 

 took out my zither, and with soft mournful tones, soothed 

 the home-sickness which in loneliness forces itself on the 

 heart. After a time, overcome by fatigue, I extended 

 myself on my buffalo skin before the fire, and soon a 

 succession of fantastic dreams flitted across my brain. 

 The little fat distiller sat with me and mine in a garden 

 at Leipzig, relating all the hardships and dangers which 

 he had undergone at the buffalo hunt, while my dear 

 mother listened to him with astonishment ; many other 

 loved forms were sitting round a large table, each with 

 tlnir coffee before them, when we were all disturbed by 

 a loud knocking at the gate, and started up to see what 

 was the matter, except the little distiller, who laugh- 

 ingly told us it was only a tame buffalo that he had tied 

 up at the gate. The knocking growing louder and louder, 

 I jumped up in alarm : the fire was burnt out, thick 



