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The wind-song in the crags, the river-murmur from the canyon, filled Hare's ears with music. To be alive, to feel the sun, to see the colors, to hear the sounds, was beautiful; and to know that Mescal awaited him, was enough. Work on the washed-out bank of the ditch had not gone far when Naab raised his head as if listening. "Did you hear anything?" he asked. "No," replied Hare.
Out of the window she and her husband seemed looking through dark and confused waters which leaped constantly into the brief and blinding glare of such blue-white instants of lightning as hurt the eyes. The walnut tree appeared and disappeared waving arms like a high-priest in transports of frenzy, and adding its wind-song to the mighty chorus.
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