t Longears, finding himself released, rubs
his nose vigorously with his paws, sneezes, and lies down with an
unconscious air, as if nothing had happened. He is saved.

The kite, however, is sacrified. Justly punished for wounding Redbud's
hand, throwing Miss Fanny on her face, and periling the life of
Longears, the unfortunate kite struggles a moment in the clouds,
staggers from side to side, like a drunken man, and then caught by
a sudden gust, sweeps like a streaming comet down into the autumn
forest, and is gone.

Fanny is wiping her hands, which are somewhat soiled; the rest of
the company are laughing merrily at the disappearance of the kite;
Longears is gravely and seriously contemplating the yellow enemy with
whom he has struggled so violently, and whose conqueror he believes
himself to be.

This was the incident so frequently spoken of by Mr. Ralph Ashley
afterwards, as the Bucolic of the kite.

CHAPTER XLVIII.

THE HARVEST MOON.

The day was nearly gone now, dying over fir-clad hills; but yet,
before it went, poured a last flood of rich, red light, such as only
the mountains and the valley boast, upon the beautiful sloping meadow,
stretching its green and dewy sea in front of Apple Orchard.

As the sun went away in royal splendor, bounding over the rim of
evening, like a red-striped tiger--on the eastern horizon a light rose
gradually, as though a great conflagration raged there. Then the
trees were kindled; then the broad, yellow moon--call it the harvest
moon!--soared slowly up, dragging its captive stars, and mixing its
fresh radiance with the waning glories of the crimson west.

And as the happy party--grouped upon the grassy knoll, like some party
of shepherds and shepherdesses, in the old days of Arcady--gazed on
the beautiful spectacle, the voices of the negroes coming from their
work were heard, driving their slow teams in, and sending on the air
the clear melodious songs, which, rude and ludicrous as they seem,
have yet so marvellous an effect, borne on the airs of night.

Those evening songs and sounds! Not long ago, one says, I stood, just
at sunset, on the summit of a pretty knoll, and, looking eastward, saw
the harvesters cutting into the tall, brown-headed, rippling wheat.
I heard the merry whistle of the whirling scythes; I heard their
songs--they were so sweet! And why are these harvest melodies so
soft-sounding, and so grateful to the ear? Simply because they
discourse of th