r I heard the rapid very clear, like
the nights they all died. Then I heard the music begin down stairs,
here in this chamber where they were all laid out dead,--right here on
this table where I will soon lie like the rest. I leave it to you to
see it done, Aleck McTavish, for you are a Highlandman by blood. It
was that I wanted to say to you when I called you in. I have seen
myself in my coffin three nights. Nay, say nothing; you will see.

"Hearing the music that night, down I came softly. Here sat Godfrey,
and the kindest look was on his face that ever I saw. He had his
fiddle in his hand, and he played about all our lives.

"He played about how we all came down from the North in the big canoe
with my father and mother, when we were little children and him a
baby. He played of the rapids we passed over, and of the rustling of
the poplar-trees and the purr of the pines. He played till the river
you hear now was in the fiddle, with the sound of our paddles, and the
fish jumping for flies. He played about the long winters when we were
young, so that the snow of those winters seemed falling again. The
ringing of our skates on the ice I could hear in the fiddle. He played
through all our lives when we were young and going in the woods yonder
together--and then it was the sore lament began!

"It was like as if he played how they kept him away from his brothers,
and him at his books thinking of them in the woods, and him hearing
the partridges' drumming, and the squirrels' chatter, and all the
little birds singing and singing. Oich, man, but there's no words for
the sadness of it!"

Old Angus ceased to speak as he took his violin from the table and
struck into the middle of "Great Godfrey's Lament." As he played, his
wide eyes looked past us, and the tears streamed down his brown
cheeks. When the woful strain ended, he said, staring past us: "Ay,
Godfrey, you were always our brother."

Then he put his face down in his big brown hands, and we left him
without another word.

THE RED-HEADED WINDEGO.

Big Baptiste Seguin, on snow-shoes nearly six feet long, strode
mightily out of the forest, and gazed across the treeless valley
ahead.

"Hooraw! No choppin' for two mile!" he shouted.

"Hooraw! Bully! Hi-yi!" yelled the axemen, Pierre, "Jawnny," and
"Frawce," two hundred yards behind. Their cries were taken up by the
two chain-bearers still farther back.

"Is it a lake, Baptiste?" cried Tom Dunscombe, the you