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The dull sun has vanished: all is gray and cheerless. The roar of the breakers upon the rock-bound coast comes up from afar: while up there upon the wooded hill the "Wind, that grand old harper, smites His thunder-harp of pines." "Perhaps we had better return to the others," says Dulce, coldly, making a movement as though to rise.
He had seen the trees offer their hospitable shelter to the birds and the squirrels, had basked beneath their umbrageous shadows and had listened to their whispers in the summer, and to their wild music "when winter, that grand old harper, smote his thunder-harp of pines."
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