"There's three numbers," said Harvey Dole, "and you ought to learn to
sing 'em, teacher. We sing 'em all the time, down here."
"You are fond of singing?" I questioned.
Ned Vickery, of lithe figure and straight black hair, a denizen of the
Indian encampment, started up, flushing through his dark skin.
"I lul-love it!" he said.
Ned Vickery sang with the most exquisite smoothness, but stumbled a
little in prosaical conversation.
A silent Norwegian, Lars Thorjon, who had sat gazing at me and smiling,
flushed also at the words, and murmured something rapturous with a
foreign accent.
"Yes, we're rather fond of singing." I heard George Giver's resolute
tones.
Harvey Dole gave a low, expressive whistle.
"I like it, certainly, ahem! _I_ do. _I_ like it, you know," said Lovell
Barlow.
"We have a singin' time generally every night," said Harvey. "Sometimes
Madeline plays for us on her music, and sometimes we go down to Becky's.
Madeline's melodeon is very soft and purty, but George here, he likes the
tone of Beck's organ best, I reckon. Eh, George?"
Harvey winked facetiously at George Olver, who reddened deeply but did
not cast down his eyes.
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