Catharine buries her face in her hands--she cannot bear to
look upon the sufferings of the noble animal. She will never make a
huntress--her heart is cast in too soft a mould. See they have towed the
deer ashore, and Jacob is in all his glory,--the little squaw is an Indian
at heart--see with what expertness she helps the old man; and now the great
business is completed, and the venison is stowed away at the bottom of the
canoe--they wash their hands in the river and come at Catharine's summons
to eat her breakfast.
The sun is now rising high above the pine-trees, the morning mist is also
rising and rolling off like a golden veil as it catches those glorious
rays--the whole earth seems wakening into new life--the dew has brightened
every leaf and washed each tiny flower-cup--the pines and balsams give
out their resinous fragrance--the aspens flutter and dance in the morning
breeze and return a mimic shower of dew-drops to the stream--the shores
become lower and flatter--the trees less lofty and more mossy--the stream
expands and wide beds of rushes spread out on either side--what beds of
snowy water-lilies--how splendid the rose tint of those perseicarias that
glow so brightly in the morning sun--the rushes look like a green meadow,
but the treacherous water lies deep below their grassy leaves--the deer
delights in these verdant aquatic fields, and see what flocks of red-wings
rise from among them as the canoe passes near--their bright shoulder-knots
glance like flashes of lightning in the sun-beams.
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