raction for me. I
would often check my horse on the prairies, and keep him motionless
for a half-hour, listening to these sweet, melancholy strains. Like
all cattle-calls, they are chiefly minor. I thought them quite as
singular and beautiful as the Swiss _Ranz des Vaches_, or the Swedish
cattle-calls. They consisted of a few chanted words, with a cadence
and a long _yodl_. Sometimes the yodling was aided by what the Texan
boys called "quills"--two or more pipes made of reed--_cane_
(arundinaria macrosperma). This made a sort of limited syrinx, which
gave wonderful softness and flute-like clearness to the prolonged
tones of the voice, as it was breathed into them. The boy sang one of
his saddest "calls." I looked quickly to see if Gov. Allen had noticed
the melancholy words and mournful air. I saw he had. He ceased
talking, and his face was very grave.

The boy sang:

"Going away to leave you,
Ah-a-a-a--
Going away to leave you,
Ah-a-a-a--
Going away to-morrow,
Ah-a-a-a--
Going away to-morrow,
Ah-a-a-a--
Never more to see you,
Ah-a-a-a--
Never more to see you,
Ah a-a-a."

[Music: Go-ing a-way, Go-ing a-way,
Going a-way to leave you, Ah-a-a-a.
Going a-way to leave you, Ah-a-a.]

This had always been an affecting strain to me; it was doubly so under
the existing circumstances. The song died mournfully away. We drove on
in silence for a few moments. Gov. Allen roused himself, with a sigh:
"That boy's song is very sad."

"Yes, but he sings it very frequently. He knows nothing about you. It
is neither a prophecy nor intended to be sympathetic,--you need not
make special application of it!"

"No; but it may prove a strange coincidence."

"You shan't say that. I won't listen to such a thought. You'll only
spend a pleasant summer travelling in Mexico. We'll see you at the
opera in New Orleans, next winter."

"I hope so."

Our conversation reverted now to past years. Allen spoke of his early
friends among my relatives; of his whole career in Louisiana; of his
wife, with tenderness,--[she had died in 1850], of her beauty and her
love for him. His future was so uncertain--that he scarcely alluded to
that--never with any hopefulness. It was only in the past that he
seemed to find repose of spirit. The present was too sad, the future
too shadowy for any discussion of either . . .

During this last visit, I never renewed my a