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eastern sky paled beyond the green-clad hills. A bird high on the topmost branch of a great oak tree chirped experimentally  and then burst into a trilling welcome to the  new day. A flush of rose crept above the horizon and cast its fairy radiance through  the cloistered forest. To the weary boy who leaned against the smooth, cool bole of a  beech tree the coming of dawn was grateful,  indeed. All through the night he had traversed the woods, resting at times for short periods, silently, cautiously, guiding his steps  by the stars. Progress had been woefully slow, and now that day was approaching he  had scant knowledge of the distance he had  traveled. He had heard an Indian say that the English town of Brookfield was a “little  journey” to the south of the Wachoosett encampment. A “little journey” meant usually from ten to a dozen English miles, although the Indians were grandly vague in  such matters. It seemed to David as he