'Twas the crack of a rifle reverberating through the dewy, leafy stillness of the forest.
"Dat ar an't fur off," said Tiff.
The children looked a little terrified.
"Don't you be 'fraid," he said. "I wouldn't wonder but I knowed who dat ar was. Hark, now! 'tis somebody coming dis yer way."
A clear, exultant voice sung, through the leafy distance,—
"Oh, had I the wings of the morning,
I'd fly away to Canaan's shore."
"Yes," said Tiff, to himself, "dat ar's his voice. Now, chil'en," he said, "dar's somebody coming; and you mustn't be 'fraid on him, 'cause I spects he'll get us to dat ar camp I's telling 'bout."
And Tiff, in a cracked and strained voice, which contrasted oddly enough with the bell-like notes of the distant singer, commenced singing part of an old song, which might, perhaps, have been used as a signal:—
"Hailing so stormily,