The Border Rifles: A Tale of the Texan WarAimard, Gustave
History
The Border Rifles: A Tale of the Texan War
Aimard, Gustave
Texas -- History -- To 1846 -- Fiction; Western stories
The silence of the desert was traversed by thousands of melodious and
animated whispers; gleams, flashing through the shadows, ran over the
grass like will-o'-the-wisps. On the opposite bank of the river the old
moss-clad oaks stood out like phantoms, and waved in the breeze their
long branches covered with lichens and lianas; vague sounds ran through
the air, nameless cries emerged from the forest lairs, the gentle
sighing of the wind in the foliage was heard, and the murmur of the
water on the pebbles, and last that inexplicable and unexplained sound
of buzzing life which comes from God, and which the majestic solitude of
the American savannahs renders more imposing.
The hunter yielded involuntarily to all the puissant influences of the
primitive nature that surrounded him. He felt strengthened and cheered
by it; his being was identified with the sublime scene he surveyed; a
gentle and pensive melancholy fell upon him; so far from men and their
stunted civilization, he felt himself nearer to God, and his simple
faith was heightened by the admiration aroused in him by these secrets
of nature, which were partly unveiled in his presence.
The soul is expanded, thought enlarged, by contact with this nomadic
life, in which each minute that passes produces new and unexpected
incidents; where at each step man sees the finger of God imprinted in an
indelible manner on the abrupt and grand scenery that surrounds him.
Hence this existence of danger and privation possesses, for those who
have once essayed it, a nameless charm and intoxication,
incomprehensible joys, which cause it ever to be regretted; for it is
only in the desert man feels that he lives, takes the measure of his
strength, and the secret of his power is revealed to him.
The hours passed thus rapidly with the hunter, though slumber did not
once close his eyelids. Already the cold morning breeze was curling the
tops of the trees, and rippling the surface of the stream, whose silvery
waters reflected the shadows of its irregular banks; on the horizon
broad pink stripes revealed the speedy dawn of day. The owl, hidden
beneath the foliage, had twice saluted the return of light, with its
melancholy toowhit--it was about three o'clock in the morning.
Tranquil left the rustic seat on which he had hitherto remained, shook
off the stiffening feeling which had seized on him, and walked a few
paces up and down the sand to restore the circulation in his limbs.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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