Mr.Hamlin's voice was not cultivated; the subject of his song was some sentimental lunacy borrowed from the Negro minstrels; but there thrilled through all some occult quality of tone and expression that was unspeakably touching.

Indeed, it was a wonderful sight to see this sentimental blackleg, with a pack of cards in his pocket and a revolver at his back, sending his voice before him through the dim woods with a plaint about his "Nelly's grave" in a way that overflowed the eyes of the listener.

A sparrow hawk, fresh from his sixth victim, possibly recognizing in Mr.Hamlin a kindred spirit, stared at him in surprise, and was fain to confess the superiority of man.

With a superior predatory capacity, HE couldn't sing.
But Mr.Hamlin presently found himself again on the highroad, and at his former pace.

Ditches and banks of gravel, denuded hillsides, stumps, and decayed trunks of trees, took the place of woodland and ravine, and indicated his approach to civilization.