always sing national songs after dinner—with all their heart, and as much voice as they have left; and Edward Lorraine went to bed, when nothing was wanting but an audience, to have made him declaim most eloquently on the excellence of unsophisticated pleasure.
The next day he rose early to join in the chase of an elk, an animal rarely seen even in that remote part. The band of hunters were young and bold, and there was just enough of danger for excitement. Many a deep valley and dark ravine did they pass, when a loud shout told that their prey was at hand. Fronting them, on a barren and steep height, stood the stately creature, his size thrown out in bold relief by the clear blue sky behind: he tossed his proud antlers defyingly, as if he were conscious of the approaching enemy—when suddenly he turned, and dashed down the opposite side. Their game was now secure; gradually they narrowed their circle, till they quite hemmed in the little dell where it had taken refuge. Their noiseless steps might have defied even an Indian ear, and a few scattered trees concealed them. The stag was lying amid the grass; his horns, in forcing a passage through the woods, had borne away their spoil; and a creeping plant,
