For the Shawnees had vanished from
their town on the other side of the Ohio. Warriors and women and
children--all were suddenly and strangely gone; there was not even a
canoe left to rock among the rushes. The swifter, rougher waving of the
cane farther off may have been in the wake of a bold gray wolf. The
howling of wolves came from the distance with the occasional gusts of
wind, and as often as the wolves howled, a mysterious, melancholy
booming sounded from the deeper shadows along the shores. It was an
uneasy response from the trumpeter swans, resting like some wonderful
silver-white lilies on the quiet bosom of the dark river.
A great river has all the sea's charm and much of its mystery and
sadness. The boy standing on the Kentucky shore was under this spell as
he listened to these sounds of nature at nightfall on the Ohio, and
watched the majestic sweep of its waters--unfettered and
unsullied--through the boundless and unbroken forests. Yet he turned
eagerly to listen to another sound that came from human-kind. It was the
wild music of the boatman's horn winding its way back from the little
ship, now far away and rounding the dusky bend.
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