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! 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. Cg! —“ 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 ¢erre, he ex haut in ze 
tree.” 
“In the tree! A blacksmith in a tree?” 
“Oui, m’sieur, mazs he no blacksmit veritable, he 
inseck ; he make ze noise wiz hees weeng.” 
Now I saw it clearly, it was one of those cicada, 
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- 
