Butler citizen. [volume] (Butler, Pa.) 1877-1922, 1899-09-28

what dulled by the fever. There we
found Savile, the cook. and Jack. who
was Just in the act of mounting the
gray as if to 20 ont again.
Hello old chapr' he exclaimed the
minute he saw me. Il thought you
were lost was just going to hunt you
up.
Then he caught sight of the girl He
took the pipe out of his mouth, and l
could see his face light up with ID
pleased and awakened interest 1t was
evident | had been i'll, and he could
guess the rest; there We're few sharper
than Jack at interpreting rightly a sit
uation. He went toward the squatter ;
daughter, and, taking the empty water
bag from her hand, said something to
her in a voice so low that | knew it
was not intended for my ears. What
ever it may have been, she showed by
her manner that she was interested.
And had allowed her to carry rifle
and my water bag to the campl dare
say my face just then must have borne
a look of horror and self reproach. for
the girl laughed and said:
You needn't blame yourself my rifle
only weighs a few pounds, and you
didn't see it As for the bag. emptied
and hid it, so after all you re not so
very much to blame. But / must go
back to my own camp. I'm so glad
you re all right again. Goodby in the
meantime" And before l could stam-
mer out a word of thanks she had hon
ored us with one of her comprehensive
little bows and hurried away.
Jack and | sat under the trees, and
the night came quickly down; again we
heard the quaint notes of the unseen
morpoke in the dim forest glades. Nei-
ther Of us spoke, but as we rested and
felt the peacefulness of the scene steal
ing over us we suddenly heard some
thing that made us hold our breaths and
stare at each other.
1t was sweet burst of melody; it
held US as | could imagine those who
for the first time heard the divine pow
ers of music were held. Some one was
playing ON the violin with consummate
skill-o a musician could produce
such sounds; it was one of Mendels-
sohn's songs without words-that glo-
rious Spring Song. / ceased to specu-
late as to the creator of the music, lost
IN the beauty of the music itself.
at 5 that witch. the squatter girl ."
exclaimed Jack who had let his pipe go
out listening.
Without exchanging further words
we went over to the squatter' camp.
"Glad to see you, was the squatter' S
greeting. "Sit down, Parker. Glad
that you'v recovered so quickly. Do
you sing. Mr.. Farquharson Tut, tut,
l mean Tyndall. I've just been think
ing about that poor, unfortunate fell
| low
Jack had started so violently and
turned such CHASTITY face upon the
| squatter when he was addressed as
Farquharson that / saw Norah Mac
kenzie give him strange glance with
| her quick observant eyes Jack recov-
cred himself in another instant.
"Once upon time | used to do a
| little singing" he answered "but
there's more of the raven than the ca
nary in my composition now. -
That's your modesty, I'm sure,
insisted the squatter. sometimes of a
Sunday night in the bush ws go in for
a little music Savile here sings a capi-
tai bass He was chorister in an old
| country cathedral once Let's have q
song that we all know and can join in.
| Here is one. Pass round these copies
| Gordon, and poke up the fire into a bis
blaze so that we can see -
/ remember the tune was "St. Hell
ems" Norah Mackenzie played the ac
| compartment, and Jack surprised I'M
with remarkably good tenor voice
In fact, there was no one there wh'
could not sing well, saving myself, anC
/ was good listener. 1t was "A strang'
thing to be listening to those wei
known hymns under the dusky aisles o
the Australian forest. 1t is safe to say
never enjoyed an open air concert -
much as this one. | closed my eye
and lol
i sat in a sleepy old fashioned church
watching the waning sunlight Nrean
through a stained glass window whicl
dyed the sunbeams with the crimson
and golden hues from garments of saint
and martyrs and deepening the shadow
that, like the dust on the moldy mar
bles overhead, lay close and thick
| Through other windows. ivy draped anC
partially open, came the sweet breati
| of spring, for the snow white hawthorn
was cleaning in the green lanes, anC
the song of the birds never ceased. How
| instinct was that sacred spot with th'
associations of the past-how eloquent
every dingy stone and well worn pew
But, oh, the dear familiar faces, where
were they2 Was there nothing in this
] world save farewells2 Then, breathing
Of an infinite tenderness and trust, the
notes of an anthem rose, the fresh
sweet voices of youth and beauty, nnd
| the deeper and fuller ones of maturei
age blending with the rich chords of the
organ until the. harmony was more OF
| heaven than of earth. The world, tn,
| flesh and the devil were no more. and q
sense of restand peace possessed me sucf
IA i have never before known. Surely,
the spirits of those whose memory had