But Tim stood a little longer looking out at the moonlit river and the two waiting canoes. His gaze roved along the stream, northward. He lifted his head, opened his mouth, expanded his lungs, and then the astounded denizens of forest and stream cut short their discordant concert to listen to something they never had heard before and never would hear again—a great voice thundering a censored version of a North American army song.
"Home, boys, home! Home we want to be!
Home, boys, home, in God's countree!
We'll raise Ol' Glory to the top o' the pole
And we'll all come back—not a dog-gone soul!"