And the twilight deepens. One by one the stars break out from the sky, and on the earth the outlines of objects begin to intermingle. The trees on the banks around us are blending, and the spaces beneath their branches are becoming black. The farther waters glimmer dim and dusky; and the tavern on the opposite shore is half shaded into the misty back-ground.
But the wild, red globe of the harvest-moon slow heaves to view until it rests upon the hill-top like the old Scotch beal-fire. How glorious will the scene shortly be rejoicing in her pearly beauty; yet the indistinct gray of the landscape, now showing like an India-ink drawing, is sweet and tender, social, and full of kindness. It is emphatically the hour for song; and so, recovering from the short silence that had fallen upon us, a call is made upon our two singers for the exercise of their abilities. Now both of them are of the masculine gender; for, strange to say, not a girl of our party has any voice for the public, but one, and she is painfully bashful; so our two thrushes are always in requisition. They differ, however, in their accomplishment. Lavigne has a sweet, flexible, tenor voice, whilst Murray’s is a rich sonorous bass. Our first call is upon the latter, who, being a lieutenant in the “Monticello Greys,” has a taste inclining to the warlike; and so, clearing his voice with a loud effort, he sings —
Banners all around us flying,
Trumpets all around us ringing,
Weapons gleaming, chargers springing
Comrades, who’s afraid of dying!
Forward march! on, on we go,
Gladly, freely, breast to foe;
Forward, comrades! on we go—
Such the joys we soldiers know;