There
Was One Glen, Stretching Up Between Steep Cliffs Far Into The Bosom
Of The Mountain.
I began to ascend along its bottom, pushing my way
onward among the rocks, trees, and bushes that obstructed it.
A
slender thread of water trickled along its center, which since
issuing from the heart of its native rock could scarcely have been
warmed or gladdened by a ray of sunshine. After advancing for some
time, I conceived myself to be entirely alone; but coming to a part
of the glen in a great measure free of trees and undergrowth, I saw
at some distance the black head and red shoulders of an Indian among
the bushes above. The reader need not prepare himself for a
startling adventure, for I have none to relate. The head and
shoulders belonged to Mene-Seela, my best friend in the village. As
I had approached noiselessly with my moccasined feet, the old man was
quite unconscious of my presence; and turning to a point where I
could gain an unobstructed view of him, I saw him seated alone,
immovable as a statue, among the rocks and trees. His face was
turned upward, and his eyes seemed riveted on a pine tree springing
from a cleft in the precipice above. The crest of the pine was
swaying to and fro in the wind, and its long limbs waved slowly up
and down, as if the tree had life. Looking for a while at the old
man, I was satisfied that he was engaged in an act of worship or
prayer, or communion of some kind with a supernatural being.
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