Danny’s story was about some white settlers captured by the Indians on their way to Canada. When they came to the banks of a beautiful stream, one of the captives, a mother with several children, from a babe in arms to a girl of sixteen, gathered her little ones about her in dumb despair. She had toiled through trackless forests, forded swollen streams, climbed rocky heights, slept on the cold, bare earth, and then, when she had refused to obey the commands of an Indian chieftain, from lack of strength, she had been goaded with blows, or the gory scalps of two of her children, which still hung from his belt, had been flourished menacingly before her eyes. As she stood on the banks of the river, feeling that her reason would forsake her from anguish, she suddenly heard one of the Indians ask her oldest daughter to sing. The girl stood speechless with amazement, not knowing what to do for a moment, and then there floated out through the vast solitudes of these lonely mountains a curiously fresh young voice, as the girl chanted the sublime words of the psalmist in the plaintive river-song. There was a slight pause, and then Danny’s voice, sweet and clear, to the accompaniment of the soft strains of Tony’s violin, was heard as he chanted: “By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, yes, we wept, when we remembered Zion. “We hanged our harps upon the willows in the midst thereof. “For there they that carried us away captive required of us a song; and they that wasted us required of us mirth.” Tony’s hands lovingly fingered his bow, and the music, like the rippling flow of the river Ellis, continued its sweet low murmur, as the little newsie told how the magic charm of these beautiful words must have touched some chord in the savage breasts, for, as the girl ceased, the fiercest Indian caught the babe gently from the mother’s arms and carried it across the river. One of his companions also softened, and, picking up another child, bore it safely over the stream. Nathalie chose the familiar Willey story, about the family who lived in an inn on the side of Mount Willey, at the entrance to the great Notch. “In 1826,” said the girl, “one evening in June they heard a queer, rumbling noise, and hurried out to see an avalanche of stones and uprooted trees making its way with great speed down the mountain. Fortunately, before it reached the house it swerved one side, and the Willeys, believing it quite safe, returned to the house, and, as time passed on, carelessly forgot the warning that had been given them.