xultant, and shaken with the great joy of his singing;
Over the river, loud-chattering, aloft in the air, the kingfisher
Hung, ere he dropped, like a bolt, in the water beneath him;
Gossiping, out of the bank flew myriad twittering swallows;
And in the boughs of the sycamores quarrelled and clamored the
blackbirds.

Never for these things a moment halted the Movers, but onward,
Up the long hillside road the white-tented wagon moved slowly.
Till, on the summit, that overlooked all the beautiful valley,
Trembling and spent, the horses came to a standstill unbidden;
Then from the wagon the mother in silence got down with her
children,
Came, and stood by the father, and rested her hand on his shoulder.

Long together they gazed on the beautiful valley before them;
Looked on the well-known fields that stretched away to the
woodlands,
Where, in the dark lines of green, showed the milk-white crest of
the dogwood,
Snow of wild-plums in bloom, and crimson tints of the red-bud;
Looked on the pasture-fields where the cattle were lazily
grazing,--
Soft, and sweet, and thin came the faint, far notes of the
cow-bells,--
Looked on the oft-trodden lanes, with their elder and blackberry
borders,
Looked on the orchard, a bloomy sea, with its billows of blossoms.
Fair was the scene, yet suddenly strange and all unfamiliar,
As are the faces of friends, when the word of farewell has been
spoken.
Long together they gazed; then at last on the little log-cabin--
Home for so many years, now home no longer forever--
Rested their tearless eyes in the silent rapture of anguish.
Up on the morning air no column of smoke from the chimney
Wavering, silver and azure, rose, fading and brightening ever;
Shut was the door where yesterday morning the children were
playing;
Lit with a gleam of the sun the window stared up at them blindly.
Cold was the hearthstone now, and the place was forsaken and empty.
Empty? Ah no! but haunted by thronging and tenderest fancies,
Sad recollections of all that had been, of sorrow or gladness.

Still they sat there in the glow of the wide red fire in the
winter,
Still they sat there by the door in the cool of the still summer
evening,
Still the mother seemed to be singing her babe there to slumber,
Still the father beheld her weep o'er the child that wa