Her voice was soft, and low, and plaintive, and she delighted in imitating
the little ballads or hymns that Catharine sung; though she knew nothing of
their meaning, she would catch the tunes, and sing the song with Catharine,
touching the hearts of her delighted auditors by the melody and pathos of
her voice.
The season called Indian summer had now arrived: the air was soft and mild,
almost oppressively warm; the sun looked red as though seen through the
smoke clouds of a populous city. A soft blue haze hung on the bosom of the
glassy lake, which reflected on its waveless surface every passing shadow,
and the gorgeous tints of its changing woods on shore and island. Sometimes
the stillness of the air was relieved by a soft sighing wind, which rustled
the dying foliage as it swept by.
The Indian summer is the harvest of the Indian tribes. It is during this
season that they hunt and shoot the wild fowl that come in their annual
flights to visit the waters of the American lakes and rivers; it is then
that they gather in their rice, and prepare their winter stores of meat,
and fish, and furs.
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