'"
I liked the music, it was so plaintive, so different from the common
well-bred songs.
Not a breath of air was stirring. Her voice rang out upon the stillness,
clear and shrill as a wild bird's. It was such a voice as you frequently
meet with among country-girls, entirely uncultivated, but of great
power, and, on some notes, of wonderful sweetness. Her admiring
listener rested upon his oars, letting his skiff drift along upon the
tide. It floated underneath the tree, and up into "the Crick." As it
passed, I saw, in the bottom of the boat, a little basket of wild
cherries.
While watching their progress, I heard a rustling among some
alder-bushes that grew about a fence, and, upon looking that way, saw
David. He, too, was watching the play, though he had not, like me, the
benefit of a seat in the gallery.
The expression on his countenance was something like what I had seen on
the faces of people at the theatre: a sort of fixed, immovable look, as
if its wearer were determined on being sensation-proof.
I glanced at the skiff. The Doctor's boy was throwing cherries at Mary
Ellen, and she was catching them in her mouth.
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