r some wild
turkey disappearing in the glades. Happy birds! the arrow never
left the string. Verty's hand would fall--the bow would drop at his
side--he would fix his eyes upon the autumn woods, and smile.

He went on thus through the glades of the forest, over the hills, and
along the banks of little streams towards the west. The autumn reigned
in golden splendor--and not alone in gold: in purple, and azure and
crimson, with a wealth of slowly falling leaves which soon would pass
away, the poor perished glories of the fair golden year. The wild
geese flying South sent their faint carol from the clouds--the swamp
sparrow twittered, and the still copse was stirred by the silent croak
of some wandering wild turkey, or the far forest made most musical
with that sound which the master of Wharncliffe Lodge delighted in,
the "belling of the hart."

Verty drank in these forest sounds, and the full glories of the
Autumn, rapturously--while he looked and listened, all his sadness
passed away, and his wild Indian nature made him happy there, in the
heart of the woods. Ever and anon, however, the events of the morning
would occur to him, sweeping over his upraised brow like the shadow of
a cloud, and dimming the brightness of his dreamy smiles.

"How red the maples grow!" he said, "they are burning away--and the
dogwood! Poor oaks! I'm sorry for you; you are going, and I think
you look like kings--going? That was what Redbud said! She was going
away--going away!"

And a sigh issued from Verty's lips, which betrayed the importance
he attached to Redbud's departure. Then his head drooped; and he
murmured--"going away!"

Poor Verty! It does not require any very profound acuteness to divine
your condition. You are one more added to the list which Leander heads
in the old Grecian fable. Your speech betrays you.

"Wild geese! They are early this year. Ho, there! good companions that
you are, come down and let me shoot at you. 'Crake! crake!' that is
all you say--away up there in the white clouds, laughing at me, I
suppose, and making fun of my bow. Listen! they are answering me from
the clouds! I wish I could fly up in the clouds! Travelling, as I
live, away off to the south!--leaving us to go and join their fellows.
They are wild birds; I've shot many of em'. Hark, Longears! see up
there! There they go--'crake! crake! crake!' I can see their long
necks stretched out toward the South--they are almost gone--going away
from me--li