A TRUE STORY OF A FAWN.
Down from a mountain's craggy brow
His homeward way a hunter took,
By a path that wound to the vales below
At the side of a leaping brook.
Long and sore had his journey been,
By the dust that clung to his forest green,
By the stains on his broidered moccasin;
And over his shoulder his rifle hung,
And pouch and horn at his girdle swung.
His homeward way a hunter took,
By a path that wound to the vales below
At the side of a leaping brook.
Long and sore had his journey been,
By the dust that clung to his forest green,
By the stains on his broidered moccasin;
And over his shoulder his rifle hung,
And pouch and horn at his girdle swung.
The eve crept westward; soft and pale
The sunset poured its rosy flood
The sunset poured its rosy flood
