The whistle of the shot as it cuts the leaves / Of the maples around the church’s eaves— / And the grade of hatchets, fiercely thrown, / On wigwam-log, and tree, and stone.

He wore a jaunty outfit that was all the rage.

They doubled back in hopes of finding the road again.

That's no matter, said Mellida, but I am sure a neater personage is there not in mine eye in all the world. And how far would poor Mellida go to receive one pleasing smile from him?