came from out the forest; the call of the raccoon and the answer, the hooting of the owl, and the low murmur of the leaves, stirred by the light breeze that moved lazily among the tree-tops, old familiar music to us, were heard.  This latter sound is always heard, even in the stillest and calmest nights.  There may be no ripple upon the water; it may be moveless and smooth as a mirror, no breath of air may sweep across its surface, and yet in the old forest among the tree-tops, there is always that low ceaseless murmur, a soft whispering as if the spirits of the woods were holding, in hushed voices, communion together.  We had retired for the night under the cover of our tents.  My companion had sunk into slumber, and I was just in that dreamy state, half sleeping and half awake, which constitutes the very paradise of repose, when there came drifting across the lake the faint and far off strains of music, which, to my seeming, exceeded in sweetness anything I had ever heard.  They came so soft and melodious, floating so gently over the water, and dying away so quietly in the old woods, that I could scarce persuade myself of their reality.  For a while I lay luxuriating as in the delusion of a pleasant dream, as though the melody that was abroad on the air was the voices of angels chanting their lullaby into the charmed ear of the sleeper.  Presently, Smith raised his head, supporting his cheek upon his hand, his elbow resting upon the ground, and after listening for a moment, opened his eyes in bewilderment exclaiming, as he looked in utter astonishment about him, “What, in the name of all that is mysterious, is that?”

Spalding and the Doctor followed, and their amazement was equalled only by their admiration when

     “Oft in the stilly night”

came stealing in matchless harmony over the water, “A serenade from the Naiads, by Jupiter!” exclaimed Smith.

“A concert, by the Genii of the waters!” cried the Doctor.

“Hush!” said Spalding, “we are trespassing upon fairy domain; the spirits of these old woods, these mountains and rock-bound lakes, are abroad, and well may they carol in their joyousness in a night like this.”

In a little while the music changed, and

     “Come o’er the moonlight sea”

came swelling over the lake.  And again it changed and

     “Come mariner down in the deep with me”

went gently and swiftly abroad on the air.  The music ceased for a moment, and then two manly voices, of great depth and power, came floating to our ears to the words: 

  “‘Farewell!  Farewell!  To thee, Araby’s daughter,’
  Thus warbled a Perl, beneath the deep sea,
  ’No pearl ever lay under Onan’s dark water,
  More pure in its shell than thy spirit in thee.’”

“That’s flesh and blood, at least,” exclaimed the Doctor, “and I propose to ascertain who are treating as to this charming serenade in the stillness of midnight.”