But the wild, red globe of the harvest-moon slow heaves to view until it rests upon the hill-top like the old Scotch beal-fire. How glorious will the scene shortly be rejoicing in her pearly beauty; yet the indistinct gray of the landscape, now showing like an India-ink drawing, is sweet and tender, social, and full of kindness. It is emphatically the hour for song; and so, recovering from the short silence that had fallen upon us, a call is made upon our two singers for the exercise of their abilities. Now both of them are of the masculine gender; for, strange to say, not a girl of our party has any voice for the public, but one, and she is painfully bashful; so our two thrushes are always in requisition. They differ, however, in their accomplishment. Lavigne has a sweet, flexible, tenor voice, whilst Murray’s is a rich sonorous bass. Our first call is upon the latter, who, being a lieutenant in the “Monticello Greys,” has a taste inclining to the warlike; and so, clearing his voice with a loud effort, he sings— Banners all around us flying, Trumpets all around us ringing, Weapons gleaming, chargers springing Comrades, who’s afraid of dying! Forward march! on, on we go, Gladly, freely, breast to foe; Forward, comrades! on we go— Such the joys we soldiers know; Honor bright to fleeting breath, Give us victory or death! With our bosoms to the foe— Such the joys we soldiers know. When is past the conflict gory; When the veins have ceased their leaping, Then the watch-fire redly heaping, Round fly merry song and story. Care and grief behind we throw, As the gleaming glasses flow. Forward march! we bid them go— Such the joys we soldiers know. Ever ready for the field, Never fearing life to yield, Firm we stand before the foe, Such the joys we soldiers know. As the deep tones die upon the ear, we all, after expressing the usual thanks, turn to Lavigne to follow up the good example thus set him. Descended from an old Huguenot family, his first thought is to the land of his fathers, and with much animation in his looks, he breaks out into the following strain:— Lovely France—la belle France! At thy name my bosom bounds, To my eye sweet visions dance, In my ear soft music sounds. Hail, thy purple vineyards glowing! Hail, thy flowery streamlets flowing! Of my life thou seem’st a part, Lovely France—la belle France! Glorious France, how dear thou art!