Sinopsis

CHAPTER I I 8 24- I 846 The little old Town where I was born has a Voice of own, low, solemn, persistent, humming through the day and night, summer and winter. Whenever I of that Town I seem to hear the Voice. The River which makes it, rolls over rocky ledges into the before, spreads a great Ocean in sunshine or behind, stretches a many-islanded Lake. On the runs a wavy line of blue Mountains ; and on the north, over green or rocky hills, rise peaks of a more distant range. The trees hide in glens, or cluster near the river ; gray rocks and boulders lie scattered about the windy pastures. The sky arches wide over all, giving room to multitudes of stars by