" "Why, that must be about the time of the Great Storm," rejoined Jackson. One might have said that these trees grieved for their native soil; and, grieving, refused to bear. “What are you doing?” He cried. Sometimes the music would be tender and dreamy, like a native mother's crooning to her young; sometimes it would be so gay that the flesh tingled and the feet were urged to dance; again, it would be like the storms crashing, thunderous.
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