"My country! 'tis of thee,
Sweet land of liberty,
Of thee I sing!"
Here the singer's voice broke down, and I peered curiously around my corner of the wall. He was pacing to and fro on the river-bank—a weary-faced lad with pale cheeks and drooping shoulders. Beyond him a fat French footman lay asleep on the grass, one hand loosely clutching a novel. An elderly goat, grazing nearer and nearer the man, kept a wary eye on the book, and finally seizing it, devoured it leaf by leaf. At this the weary-faced boy did not smile, and then I knew there was something the matter with him.
Partly because I wished to console him, partly because I was lonely, I continued the song in notes rather more cheerful than his own:
"Land where my fathers died,
Land of the pilgrims' pride,
From every mountainside
Let freedom ring!"
The boy stood stock-still, only moving his head slightly after the manner of a bird listening to a pleasant strain. When I finished he came toward me, cap in hand.
"Mademoiselle, you are an American?"
"No, my boy. I am a Canadian."
"That's next best," he said, politely.
"It's better," I rejoined, smiling.