He listened, although he expected to hear nothing save the song of
the leaves, and that alone he heard. A faint smile passed over the face of
Shif'less Sol. He was satisfied. All was happening as he had planned. Then
he swung the rifle back to his shoulder, and walked to the crest of a hill
near by.
The summit was bare and the shiftless one saw far. It was a splendid
rolling country, covered with forests of oak and elm, beech, hickory and
maple. Here and there faint threads of silver showed where rivers or
brooks flowed, and he drew a long deep breath. The measure of line and
verse he knew not, but deep in his being Nature had kindled the true fire
of poetry, and now his pleasure was so keen and sharp that a throb of
emotion stirred in his throat. It was a grand country and, if reserved for
any one, it must be reserved for his race and his people. Shif'less Sol
was resolved upon that purpose and to it he was ready to devote body and
life.
Yet the wilderness seemed to tell only of peace. The low song of the
leaves was soothing and all innocence. The shiftless one was far beyond
the farthest outpost of his kind, beyond the broad yellow current of the
Mississippi, deep in the heart of the primeval forest. He might travel
full three hundred miles to the eastward and find no white cabin, while to
westward his own kind were almost a world away.
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