Chapter III: Part 3

I imitated the drumming, closely as I thought; but though I tried repeatedly, I received nothing like an answer. Downy or logcock or goldenwing, a woodpecker is an independent chap that I have never been able to call fairly; not even in spring, when he is all ears for a mate or a rival. Like many other birds, he will come quickly to an excited and deceptive squeaking between my fingers, but to my best drumming he remains deaf or indifferent.

“Ye haven’t the right combination, b’y,” said Bob when I gave over my fruitless attempt, and using his hunting knife as a hammer he began talking woodpecker-talk on a dry stub. At his first _tunk-a-tunk_ (which was not like the call we had just heard) the answer came back like an echo, and when he varied his note the woodpecker came speeding across the lake. He could do that almost any time when woodpeckers were talking, as he could excite a red squirrel into emotional fits by his gibbering; but he abused me when I told him the truth, that it was not his secret combination of raps but the fellow feeling he put into it which brought the woodpeckers.

Still more amusing have been my efforts to make talk with the timber wolves. The dog wolf has a tremendous voice for occasions, and his pack has several distinct calls, challenge, trail yelp, rallying cry, lunatic baying of the moon; but though I seem to recognize these when I hear them, and to imitate them closely enough to deceive some ears, it is seldom that I can put into my voice the true wolf quality which brings an answer. For in the woods, as elsewhere, “the tone makes the music”; it is tone quality rather than any sound or combination of sounds, the feeling behind a cry rather than the cry itself, which appeals to moose or owl or any other wild beast or bird you happen to be calling.

One still, winter night I stood in front of my “Commoosie” and repeatedly gave the gray wolf’s challenge. That wolves were within hearing I was quite sure, having crossed the fresh trail of a pack at sundown; but none made answer. Then old Noel stirred and came forth from his blanket. “Hwolf don’ spik dat way; he spik dis way,” he said, and gave a howl so nearly like mine that no ordinary ear could detect the difference. Something was in his voice, however, some primal or animal quality which a wolf understood; for hardly had his howl gone forth when it was flung back eagerly from the woods behind us; and when the Indian changed his howl to a whimper, he had wolves answering from three different directions.

The point is, that when one opens his ears to the medley of calls that enliven the day or the night, he receives many an invitation which beforetime had passed over his head unheeded. Around your summer camp, for example, red squirrels are the most numerous and, as you think, the most familiar of animals; but did you ever attempt to interpret the astonishing variety of sounds which a squirrel uses habitually in the way of speech? Until you do that, Meeko the mischief-maker is a stranger to you, dwelling far on the other side of an unbridged gulf.

I do not mean that Meeko or any other animal has a language, for that is a doubtful matter; but all wild creatures communicate with others of their kind; and even when alone an animal is like a child in that he has changing moods or emotions which he expresses very plainly by modulations of his voice. So these familiar squirrels, which you hear about your camp, are not jabbering idiotically or without meaning. When angry they scold; when surprised they snicker; at other times they fling jest or repartee or abuse at one another, their voices changing noticeably with their changing moods. Now and then, as you follow Meeko to see what he is doing, he utters a long, vibrant and exultant call, in sheer delight at being alive, you think; or he stops short in a gambol and puzzles you by sitting very still, very attentive, with his nose pressed against a branch between his paws. Gone suddenly are all his jeers, his exultations, his mischief-making; he has a sober, introspective air, as if trying to remember something, or as if listening to what his other self might be saying.

If you watch Meeko’s eye at such a moment, noting its telltale lights, you will have a different opinion of his silence. He is listening, indeed, but to something so fine or distant that he cannot be quite sure what it is, or rather what it says. Therefore does he use the branch as a sounding board, pressing nose or teeth against it to catch the faint vibrations in a way to help his ears, just as woodpeckers use their tongues for the same purpose of better hearing. There! you hear the sound faintly now, and Meeko hears it distinctly enough to understand it, if one may judge by his actions. It comes from another squirrel out yonder, a truculent fellow, who is proclaiming his heretical opinion to the universe, and to this little dogmatist in particular.

Watch Meeko now; see his silent absorption change to violent rage. He barks; he seems to curse in his own way; he springs up and down on the same spot, like a boastful Quebec lumberman who jumps on his hat to work himself up to the fighting pitch. Out of breath, he stops a moment to listen, to ascertain whether he has silenced his opponent. A jeer floats in from the distance. Meeko says, “Kilch-kilch! I’ll show that impostor; I’ll teach him a lesson,” and away he goes headlong. To follow him is to witness a characteristic squirrel argument, a challenge, a rush, an upset, a furious chase up and down the swaying branches, till your head grows dizzy in following it. And then one long, triumphant yell to proclaim that another heresy is silenced forever.

Many times I have thus watched Meeko as he listened to something I could not at first hear; and almost invariably, when I have followed his rush, I have found him either berating some passing animal much bigger than himself or engaged in a hurry-scurry kind of argument with another squirrel.

Once I saw that the fellow who dared dispute Meeko’s doctrine was a very little squirrel, not big enough to hold opinion of his own, much less to challenge a quidnunc. He was bowled over at the first charge, and fell to the ground, where he darted off at top speed, doubling and dodging here, there, anywhere for a quiet life. Hot at his heels followed the irate Meeko, berating him like a pirate, giving him no chance to retract his impudence. The little fellow whisked up a tree at last, and squirmed into a knothole that seemed too small for any squirrel. Meeko was so close behind that nose met tail; but wriggle as he would, he could not get halfway into the knothole. It was an impossible squeeze for a squirrel of his bulk. As he worked and scolded himself into a passion, every now and then came a hollow, muffled snicker from within the doorway, which seemed to drive Meeko frantic.

He gave up the attempt after a time, and headed down the tree, threatening vengeance as he went. Before he was halfway to the ground the little fellow put his head out and repeated his original opinion, which started the explosive argument all over again. Eight times, while I watched, Meeko went away fuming, after vainly trying to force himself into the knothole; and every time Meekosis, as Simmo calls the little squirrel, came to the doorway to jibe at him, bringing him back in a fury that ran the gamut from volubility to speechlessness. The comedy was still running when lengthening shadows called me away to the trout pool, where my supper needed catching.

That same pool recalls another wood-folk comedy, none the less amusing because two of the actors were serious as owls when they played it out. Simmo, the Indian, and I were on our homeward way through the wilderness when we came to a beautiful place on the river, and camped there, day after heavenly day, until my vacation drew to an end. Then, because trout were plentiful at the mouth of a cold brook, I broke my rule of catching only enough for my table, and decided to take a few good fish as a thank-offering to some people who had been kind to me, a stranger. Two mornings and evenings I whipped the pools, ignoring small rises, striking only at the big fellows; and at dusk of the second day I packed away my catch and my rod with a sigh of heartfelt content. It was my last fishing for the year. There were only fifteen fish to show for it; but they weighed full thirty pounds, all clean, silvery, beautiful trout. Each one was wiped dry for keeping, wrapped separately in dried moss, and set away under a rock by a cold spring.

Early next morning Simmo went to fetch one of the trout for breakfast. I was stirring the fire when I heard him calling, “Come here! Oh, by cosh, come here!” and ran to find him standing open-mouthed over the storehouse, his eyes like gimlets, a blank, utterly bewildered expression spread all over his dark face. There was not a fish left, and not a sign on the hard soil to tell who had taken them.

We gave up the puzzle and went back to a meager breakfast, wagging our heads soberly. A bear or a lynx would have left plenty of signs for us to read. As we were eating, I saw a mink dodging along the shore, humping his back in true weasel fashion, as if in a great hurry. He disappeared under a root, all but his tail, and seemed to be very busy about something. When he backed out he was dragging a big trout.

“Das de feller! Cheokhes steal-um,” yelled Simmo, all excitement, and away he went on the jump. Startled by the thumping behind him, Cheokhes dropped his fish and took to the river, leaving a V-shaped wake trailing behind him as he forged away.

“Keep still, Simmo; let’s watch him,” I cautioned, and we both sat motionless on the bank; but not till the Indian had made sure of a more ample breakfast. His fingers were hooked into the gills of the big trout, his face a study in satisfaction.

The mink circled uneasily a few moments; then he whirled and headed for us, wiggling his pointed nose as he smelled the fish. Simmo was sitting with elbows on knees, the trout hanging down between, when the nervy little beast crossed over my foot, grabbed his prize, and attempted to drag it out of the Indian’s hand.

“By cosh, now, das too cheeky!” said Simmo, and with the tail of the trout he batted Cheokhes over the head. Away he went with a screech and a show of sharp teeth; but in a moment he was back again, and twice attempted to get possession of what he considered his property. Then, as Simmo grew impatient and batted the little thief coming and going, he made off indignantly with an air of, “Well, I know where to find a better one.” Following him up, I took away from him another trout, which he dragged from a pile of drift stuff, and after some search I unearthed two more which he had hidden under a pine stump.

That was all we ever found of our fine catch, and I am still wondering what a creature not much bigger than a rat expected to do with thirty pounds of fresh fish. Indeed, from his unprejudiced viewpoint, what should anybody expect to do with them? They belonged first of all to the river, and then to any light-footed fellow who could appreciate their flavor. But Simmo was wrathy. As we paddled downriver that day, he talked of mink and white men’s children, and read me a little homily on the vice of stealing.

HEALTH AND A DAY

“Give me health and a day, and I will make the pomp of emperors
ridiculous.”--EMERSON.

During the night I had been up to watch Tookhees playing in the moonlight. Tookhees is the wood mouse, a dainty and a pretty creature, who is happily ignorant that he is an important item in nature’s food supply. He and his fellows have a way of amusing themselves, as I judge, by creeping up one slope of my tent and tumbling or sliding down the other; and before they come together for play, if such it be, you will hear them drumming in all directions, signaling and answering by tapping on the ground. The wood mice ran away when Kook’skoos, “the mother of the moon,” began a doleful hooting to her owlets; then through the light, dreamless sleep of the woodsman came the first chirping of awakened birds. My day had begun; expectantly I came forth to enjoy its uncovenanted mercies.

Killooleet the white-throated sparrow was already singing, and though his voice was a bit rusty, as it always is when summer wanes, there was yet gladness in it. You will hear it said that birds sing only in nesting time; but the saying comes of late sleeping. When dawn comes with its rosy invitation to a new day, birds at any season seem to feel the old _Sursum Corda_, and are impelled to some joyous expression. Though the springtime was long past, a score of warblers and thrushes were ringing their matins, and among them one shy wood thrush sent forth a heavenly note, beautiful and solemn, as from a silver flute. Then a jay cried _thief! thief!_ seeming different from other birds in that he called attention to himself, while they were content to herald the morning. From a hollow cedar behind my tent a red squirrel began to snicker; on the lake shore a kingfisher raised his _Jubilate_; as I listened to the medley of awakening life a word of Anne Bradstreet came into my head:

I heard the merry grasshopper then sing,
The black-clad cricket bear a second part;
They kept one tune and played on the same string,
Seeming to glory in their little art.

Most of Anne’s poetry was rather “punk,” to be sure, but here her feeling was excellent; so from primeval woods I sent greeting across the centuries to the Colonial singer who had lived in their shadow, and was first to put our New World nature to melody. Then, to keep proper company with her and all glad creatures, I joined the chorus with “From All That Dwell Below the Skies.” The grand old hymn needs a church organ and ten-thousand voices; but I must sing it softly for two reasons: because some sleepers in camp regarded early rising as a sign of lunacy; and because others might wake up and ask where I was going, or whether they might not go with me. And I did not yet know where I was going. I had picked this day for a “good lonesome,” to go where I listed, and perhaps to grow better acquainted with God and Nature by meeting them in solitude face to face.

As the canoe glided from the landing there was a faint stir in the mist, which hung low over all the lake. Out of the mist came first a thrush song, then a glow of soft color, like mother-of-pearl, finally something dark and solid, which turned into the crown of a mighty pine as I approached. Its stem was hidden under a white veil, as was the island on which it grew; but its topmost branches spread lightly over the sea of cloud, like the wings of a floating raven.

Doubling the point on which the pine stood sentinel, I used my sounding line to locate a channel that wound deeply amid shoals and gravel bars. I had discovered this channel one day when swimming; and it seemed, now that fish had retired to deep water, the likeliest place for a big trout on the entire lake. Under the shroud of mist the water lay dreamy, placid, formless, giving no hint of what it concealed save in one spot on the edge of the outermost shoal. There, as if indeed all things were foreordained, tiny ripples and splashes kept the surface in commotion. It was a school of fresh-water smelts, darting about or leaping into the air to escape the rush of feeding fish below. Suddenly came a plunge, a swirl; a mottled back rolled into sight among the smelts.

“Aha! I knew I’d catch a big one here this morning,” I thought, thus deceiving myself again; for I did not know anything of the kind. I was merely exalting hope above experience, which is the everlasting occupation of all fishermen.

Close beside the shoaling smelts I lowered my killick, and turned overboard from my bucket a dozen minnows that were plainly in need of fresher water. Soon two delicately curving rods were out, one swinging its shining lure close to bottom for fat or lazy fellows, the other holding a lively red-fin near the surface. Then, my part being properly played, I leaned back against an air-cushion in heavenly content. Once more I was fishing, my companions the bird songs and the awakening day.

He who counts time in such a place is no philosopher, and therefore no fisherman. I had waited an hour or a minute, one being short as the other to him who is sure of a bite, when the slender tip of a rod arched sharply, once, twice, and again. A moment’s wait, because fish that refuse a fly are slow about a minnow; then I struck, and was fast to something that seemed charged with electricity. He was netted after a heart-kindling struggle filled by hopes, thrills, anxieties, with one awful sinking moment when the line slacked and I could not feel his tugging. There he was, safe in the canoe, a firm-fleshed, deep-bodied, five-pound trout, his olive back mottled as if by the ripples under which he had lived, his sheeny sides flecked with flaming crimson.

I was feasting my eyes on the trout, the beauty and goodly size of him, and was humming the Doxology, when the other rod rattled on the thwart, and its tip ducked out of sight under water. Another age of thrills, livelier but shorter than the last; then a big whitefish--a rare catch here, and a delicious _bonne bouche_ anywhere--is placed tenderly in his box of moss. He flaunts blue and silver as his colors; they form airy contrast to the deeper hues of the gorgeous trout.

I am admiring the splendid catch as I reel in my lines and turn overboard the remaining minnows. There are more fish under those darting smelts, perhaps much larger fish; but enough is plenty for one morning. I shall come again. The pine, which is still my only visible landmark, begins to hide his crown. The mist is rising, and glowing in the east with a gorgeous promise. “I shall hide these fish in the Indian spring,” I tell myself, “and begin another day before the sun rises.”

The Indian spring is on the mainland, halfway up a hardwood ridge. Out of it flows a run, mossy and ice-cold, a perfect place for storing fish; and the run joins a little brook that goes singing down to the lake. As I follow up this brook, brushing the moist ferns, inhaling the fragrance of balsam and hemlock, there is a swift movement ahead. Here or there I have glimpse of an arched back, and down the bank of the stream comes a mink on the jump, wiggling his pointed nose as he smells my fish. Then I change my mind about storing the catch, since to hide it here is to lose it. Once I left two grilse and a salmon of fifteen pounds in a spring brook, and when I returned I found only mink tracks. How the little beast could get away with that salmon without leaving a trail for me to follow is still a mystery. I think he floated him down the brook, as a beaver handles a heavy log.

The mink darts up to my foot and rests a paw upon it before he begins to suspect something wrong in the motionless figure with two big fish hanging beside it. He goes away unwillingly, still wiggling his nose; and I make my way back to camp, and hang the fish where the cook must see them when he comes to get breakfast for the lazy ones. I shall miss the transient flavor of that whitefish; but I have something better, the lasting taste of catching him. Then I slip away, leaving the campers fast asleep. Their day has not yet begun; mine stretches away in both directions into endless vistas.

Again the canoe glides into the mist, which is swaying now in fantastic shapes, gloriously colored. To watch it is to remember Lanier’s “Sunrise” and “Marshes of Glynn”; but life is all a poem just now, and no one has ever written a line of it. Across the lake we go, and up a stream where great trees bend low over feeding deer. The deer lift their heads to point each a velvety black muzzle at our approach. From the stream we steal into a smaller lake, profoundly still; it seems to be sleeping under its blanket of mist, amid hills of spruce and pine.

It is beautiful here, and lonely enough to satisfy the most fastidious; but to-day the Beyond is calling, and the spirit answers, “I come.” Leaving the canoe overturned in a shady spot, and tapping various pockets to be sure of compass, matches and other things needful, I take gladly to the trail. In my hand is a cased fishing rod, at my belt a good ax, before me a silent wilderness. The wilderness has its road, unfortunately, and so it is not quite unspoiled; but of two things you may be sure: you shall meet no traveler on the road, and find no inn at the end of it.

The way leads eastward at first, following the old lumber road; then, if one looks sharply, one may find the entrance to a blazed trapper’s trail. At the end of that trail, I am told, is a lake of wondrous beauty, over which hangs a tradition of trout. I have not been this way before; the joy of Balboa and of all explorers since time began is in the air.

The big woods are quiet, as if just awake, and fragrant with the breath of morning. A multitude of little birds, having spent a happy summer here, are now flocking with their young in the open places; jays are calling loudly, and hiding things; chipmunks are busily filling their winter bins. Even the red squirrels, most careless of wood folk, seem to have a thought in their empty heads as they hurry about. They no longer gather a winter store, like the chipmunk; but when abundant autumn approaches they hide a few morsels here or there with some dim instinct of lean days to come. One passes me in haste, as if time were suddenly important; he is carrying something in his mouth, and I await his return, lured by a little brook that cries its invitation to all who are thirsty. In my heart is the old fancy, which has dwelt there since childhood, that a brook always sings a happier song when you stop to drink from it. Thus pleasantly to a roundelay I learn a new and surprising thing about squirrels.

Through all forests the squirrels have regular tree-paths; they never run blindly on a journey, but follow definite runways along the branches, which are apparently as well known to them as are lanes or alleys to the city gamin. Knowing this, I wait confidently for Meeko, and presently see him coming along the path by which he disappeared. Beyond the brook his trail leads through a spruce thicket, an unusual course, for squirrels like open going. Examining the thicket, I find that Meeko has recently been clearing this trail by cutting many of the obstructing twigs. No doubt he has found an unexpected food supply, and is using this new runway as a short cut to his cache, where he is storing things in his usual hit-or-miss fashion.

That looks promising from such a scatter-brained creature; so I sit down in the spruce thicket, making myself inconspicuous, to await Meeko’s coming. His trail runs ten feet above my head; as he rushes over it with another mouthful, he bumps into a twig that crosses his course at an awkward angle. The bump throws him off his perfect balance, and instantly he falls to swearing, though his full mouth interferes with what he would like to say. He grows silent as he examines the troublesome twig; then he rushes away as if he had made up what he calls his mind. In a few minutes, having left his mouthful at the cache, he reappears in the same path. He is silent now, and look! he is not running in his wonted breakneck fashion, but following his trail in an exploring kind of way. So he reaches the twig that hindered him, swears at it again, and cuts it with his teeth. Resting his chin between his forepaws, he follows the falling twig, his eyes shining, till it strikes the ground beside me, when he snickers his satisfaction. A motion of my head attracts his attention; he sees me for the first time, and instantly forgets everything else. He leaves his trail to come down where he can see better. In his eye is the question, “Are you alive, or am I mistaken?” When I nod to him again he breaks forth in scolding, asking who I am, demanding my business, ordering me out, all in the same breath.

So the little comedy runs on till I have enough of squirrel jabber, and leave Meeko to his own affairs; but that is the last thing he proposes to do with me. When I turn away from the thicket he rushes over branches above me, reiterating his demand, growing more wrathy as I keep silence. I am wishing I knew his language, which sounds like an imprecatory psalm with a pirate’s variation, as he follows me abusively along the road. Not till he reaches the boundary of his small territory (for squirrels, like other beasts, have limits beyond which they rarely go) does he turn back, leaving other squirrels to deal with me as an intruder. Searching the woods to the left, I soon find a blazed hemlock, and turn gladly from the lumber road into a trapper’s winter trail.

Here, save for an occasional old “blaze” on a tree, for which guiding signal one must look ahead sharply, there is no trace of man or his destruction. All is still, fragrant, beautiful, just as Nature left her handiwork. There is a sudden bumping of feet on soft earth, a flash of orange color, and I catch the waving of white flags as a deer and her fawns bound away. Farther on a brood of partridges barely move aside into the underbrush, where they stop to watch me as I pass. A hare darts out from underfoot, and he, too, is inquisitive; he crouches in the first bit of cover to find out who I am.

Up and down goes the trail, now over hardwood ridges where great sugar maples stand wide apart, now through dim evergreen valleys or cedar swamps where one must feel his way; and at last, from the summit of a ridge, comes a gleam of blue ahead. It is the lake, _eureka_, I have found it, asleep amid its eternal hills! Over it bend the trees, as if they loved it. On every point stands a giant pine, like the king-man of old, lifting head and shoulders above his fellows. From the water’s edge the forest sweeps away grandly to the sky line. A moose and her ungainly calf are feeding on the farther shore. Some animal that I cannot name slips unseen into the cover; a brood of wild ducks stretch their necks, alert and questioning, as I appear in the open.

It is a little lake, and therefore companionable, a perfect place to spend the day and find the hours too short. Searching out a pretty spot where I can see without being seen, I rest at ease, enjoying the quiet beauty of the lake; enjoying also the rare blessing of silence. I have been awake and keenly alive since the birds called me, ages ago; a thousand tongues, voices, messages, have been heard and understood; yet not a solitary word has been spoken, not once has the exquisite peace been disturbed. The _plash_ yonder, behind the rock where I cannot see what made it, is hardly a sound; like everything else one hears, it seems like a fragment of the great stillness. It reminds me, however, that when I return to camp two questions will be asked: the first, Did you find the lake? and the second, Are there any trout in it? It seems a pity, almost a profanation, to disturb such a place by human noises; I would rather be quiet; but I have promised to answer that second question.

In a swampy spot I find some dry cedars near the lake shore. Though dead, they are standing on their own roots; they are therefore weathered, and will float like corks. Soon I have cut enough for a dozen logs, with cross-pieces, and have gathered them at the water’s edge. One should be true Indian now, I suppose, and bind the raft together with bark; but to do that it is necessary to kill or scar a living tree, which is a thing I never do if it can be avoided; so I use some spikes which I have brought in my pocket. The only objection to such civilized implements is that the loud hammering seems horribly out of place. The first time I drive a spike I look around guiltily, as if I had been breaking the law. When the work is done and I push out bravely on my homely craft, I know how the man felt who found himself afloat for the first time on his own invention. It is a good feeling which makes one understand his old ancestors.

Yes, the trout are surely here; but the sun has risen over the hills and the day is bright. A few fingerlings answer as I cast in the shadow of the rocks; they chivvy the feathered lure a moment (for I do not care to catch trout to-day, nor such little fellows at any time), and flash away unharmed to the depths. Farther out from shore, out from under the lee of the hills, the water is ruffled by a light breeze; so I push in that direction, lengthening my cast as I go. The fly lights in the very center of a “catspaw”; there is a gleam of red-gold under it, followed by a terrific rush. Aha! a big one. Though I had intended merely to locate the trout without striking them, no fisherman ever trained himself so fine that he could withhold the snap of his wrist at an unexpected rise like that. Involuntarily I strike; the hook goes solidly home; the reel sets up a shrill yell of exultation as the line flies out.

I shall play this trout to a standstill, then unhook him tenderly without lifting him from the water, and let him go when I see how big he is. Yes, of course; I am not fishing to-day. But as the beautiful fish comes in, fighting every inch of the way, threatening to part my delicate leader as he darts under the raft, something reminds me that man must eat, and that a trout can be well broiled on a split stick, a green fir preferred, to give him an added woodsy flavor. Fortunately there is a pinch of salt in my pocket, put there in hopeful expectancy of the unexpected.

Killing the trout as mercifully as such a thing can be done, I run a string through his red gills, and tie him to my loose-jointed craft. Then, just to see if there are any more like him (and to avoid temptation) I break my hook at the bend, leaving only a harmless bit of steel on the fly. Here comes a cloud-shadow, drifting up the lake. I wait for it, and cast again in the same place. _Yi-yi_, what a fool I was to break that hook! The flashing rise that follows my cast is such as a fisherman dreams of in his sleep.

There must be a spring hereabouts, I think; such trouty vim and dash at this season bespeak living water. The raft drifts over the spot where my fish rose, and I stretch out to become as one of the logs, shading my eyes with my hands to exclude the upper light. There to the left I dimly discern a ring of white sand; in the middle, where the water rolls in ceaseless commotion, boils up a spring as big as my hat. As the raft grows quiet, shadows glide in from all directions to rest on the rim of sand. Shades of Izaak Walton, look at them! My trout weighs two pounds; but I wish I had let him alone and waited for a big one.

The shadows dart away at the first motion of my head; but they will come back, and one has only to bring his raft within casting distance to have wonderful fishing. This is a sure-thing place, one of the few I have found in drifting over many northern lakes, and I must locate it past forgetting. Carefully I take the ranges: big pine east and larch stub west; hawk’s nest south and split rock north. Where the imaginary lines cross is the hidden spring with its treasures. No fear that I shall miss it when I come again!

The raft moves heavily shoreward and lands at the mouth of a little brook. There I broil the lordly trout, noting with satisfaction that his flesh is pink as a salmon’s; also I make a dipper of tea, and spread a birch-bark cloth, on which is a feast for a freeman. As I eat in thankfulness, after dousing my fire to kill all scent of smoke, the moose and her calf come circumspectly out of the woods; a deer appears on the opposite shore, stepping daintily; the wild ducks glide out of their hiding place, and I am one with the silent wilderness again.

Now comes the best time of all, the time when one remembers the traveler who came to a place where it was always afternoon. At one moment I am lost in the immense tranquillity of the woods; the next I am following some little comedy which begins with a flutter of wings or a rustle of feet on leaves, and which runs on till the actors discover that a stranger is watching them.

Slowly, imperceptibly, my lovely day slips away to join all the other days; each moment of it is like a full hour of life; each hour, when it is past, seems but a fleeting moment. From an endless period of alternate watching and reverie I start up with the consciousness that the sun is below the western hills, that shadows are growing long, that I have a dim trail to follow before I find familiar landmarks again.

As I hurry along, picking up the blazed spots with difficulty in the fading light, at times over-running the trail, there comes now and then a tingling of the skin, as at the touch of cold, when I pass through darkening thickets where the night life begins to stir and rustle. If the philosopher Hume had ever followed this or any other wilderness trail after sundown, he would have found under his own skin some illustrative matter for his central doctrine. He sought to tell what the mind of man is by determining its contents at any one instant, as if its continuity and identity were of no consequence. Had he lived in the woods, he must have noticed that there are moments on a darkening trail when the mind seems to be reduced to an acute point of attraction, at the tip of which, like an electric spark, is a sense-impression. One becomes at such a time a veritable part of wild nature; a multitude of sights, sounds and flavors that ordinarily pass unnoticed are each one bringing its warning, its challenge, its question. A man’s dull ears grow keen; the pupils of his eyes expand like an animal’s; his nose resumes its almost forgotten function of taking messages from the air; his whole skin becomes a delicate receiving instrument, like the skins of the lower orders; and the strange “sixth sense” of unseen things, which most animals possess, begins to stir in its long sleep. The flow of thought is suspended; reason retreats to its hidden spring, and one grows sensitive all over, alert and responsive in every fiber of his nature. Such is the way of a man alone in the woods at night.

If this be the way the higher animals live continually (and I think it is), I heartily envy them their aliveness. It is alleged that they live a life of ceaseless fear; but fear is almost wholly mental or imaginative, and is therefore beyond the animal’s horizon. All wild creatures are naturally timid, but they have no means of knowing what fear is. That which our naturalists thoughtlessly call fear in an animal (doubtless because civilized and imaginative man, having no wild experience, is himself fearful in the dark woods) is in reality only exquisite sensitiveness to physical and pleasurable impressions.

It is almost dark when I reach the old lumber road, thankful that I need no longer search out the trapper’s trail, and turn down the open way to the lake. Yet I go more cautiously, more cat-footedly, because a few minutes ago a hidden deer stood watching my approach till I could have touched him with the fishing rod. He reminds me that most animals are now at their ease, and that twilight is the best time to come near them. The birds are asleep, all save the owls; but I hear many a faint stir or lisp of surprise as my shoulder brushes a thicket.

Presently I come to an open spot beside the road, where trees and underbrush have been cut away. A hundred roots or stubs rise above the ground, looking all alike in the gloom; yet somehow I am aware, without knowing why or how, that one motionless object is different from all the rest. I fix attention upon it, and approach softly, nearer and nearer. My eyes say that it is only a lump, dark and silent; my ears and nose tell me nothing. There is no sound, no motion, no form even to suggest what huddles there in the dark; but I know it is a living thing. I bend forward to touch it--_Br-r-r-room!_ With a roar of whirring wings a cock partridge bursts away like a bomb, giving me a terrible shock.

I never saw that explosive fellow before; but I ought to have guessed who he was, because several times I have surprised a solitary cock grouse asleep amid stubs of his own size, or else leaning against a huge stump, where he looks precisely like an extra root in the dusk. Meanwhile mother partridges with their broods are roosting higher, some in thick alders where the leaves hide them, others close against the stem of a spruce or cedar, where it is hard for eyes to distinguish them even in broad daylight.

At the foot of a hill, where a jumper trail enters the logging road from the right, I hear a strange cry from the opposite side, and stop to learn what it is. For several minutes I wait, hearing the cry at intervals, till I have located it far away on a ridge and have recognized it as the voice of a cub-bear.

The dusk is now heavy in the sleeping woods; not a breath of air stirs; the silence is intense. I am listening for the bear, when suddenly comes a feeling that something is near or watching me. Where it is, what it is, I have absolutely no notion; but the sense-of-presence grows stronger, and I trust it because I have seldom known it to be wrong. I search the lumber road up and down, but there is nothing to be seen. I search the woods on both sides, slowly, minutely, but there is no sound. Then, as I turn to the jumper trail that comes winding down the hill behind me, a current of air drifts in; my nose begins to recognize a faint odor.

A few yards up the trail is a huge black object, an upturned tree with a mat of soil clinging to its roots. Yes, it is a root, surely; but there is something in its shadow. I watch it, bending slightly so as to get the outline against the sky; and there, clearly showing now above the root, are the antlers of a bull-moose. He is still as a rock, pointing ears and ungainly nose straight at me. Undoubtedly he was coming down the trail when he saw a motion in the road ahead, and froze in his tracks to find out about it. He knows now that he is seen, and that one of us must move. For a full minute we stare at each other; then he takes a nervous step, swings broadside to the trail, and turns his head for another look. Big as he is, not a sound marks his going; he takes a few springy, silent steps up the trail, and fades into the gloom of the big woods.

So I come to the canoe at last, and cross the pond and run the stream, which is now a veritable tunnel with a tattered ribbon of sky overhead. As I cross the big lake campward, the evening star is sparkling like a great jewel on the pointed tip of a spruce, which towers above his fellows on the crown of the western hills. Overhead passes a sound of hurrying wings; a loon calls far away, and again these wild sounds are as fragments of a mighty stillness. Under the gliding canoe the waters are quiet, as if in slumber; but in the distance you can hear them talking to the shore with a voice that is now a whisper, again a faint echo of music. On every side the woods come closer, as if to look upon their reflection in the inky mirror; and they seem to be waiting, to be listening. Over all this silent, expectant world some sublime presence, living but unseen, is brooding upon the mystery of life.

And at last I, too, begin to brood. For the first time in uncounted hours comes a touch of relaxation, a quieting of the alert senses, the well-done of a perfect day. I quote softly from Lanier:

“And now from the vast of the Lord shall the waters of sleep
Roll in on the souls of men;
But who will reveal to our waking ken
The forms that swim and the shapes that creep
Under the waters of sleep?”

As I double the point toward which the canoe has long been heading, a light flashes cheerily out of the dark woods; the camp fire sends out its invitation, and a voice calls, “Welcome home!” Though my “good lonesome” is ended, and better things are waiting, I must still turn for a last look at the sleeping lake, to watch the ultimate glimmer of twilight fade and vanish over the western steeps.

Good-by, my Day; and hail! You go, yet you stay forever. You have taught me something of the nature of eternity, of the day of the Lord that is as a thousand years, and of the thousand years that are as one day.

NIGHT LIFE OF THE WILDERNESS

Twilight is deepening into dusk as you leave camp to follow the silent trail. The long summer day has had its lesson, broken short off, as all lessons are before we learn them; now what of the night?

With the sunset a subtle change comes over the big woods; they are fragrant and profoundly still. Trees that were massed in the sunshine now seem more individual, standing with outstretched arms, praying their myriad prayer; and viewing them against the sky you see their delicate grace as well as their strength. The birds have long been quiet, all but the robin, who on the tip of the tallest evergreen, where he can see a gleam of afterglow, pours out a strangely wild song. He is always the last to go to bed. Chipmunks that have been silently busy all day, and red squirrels that have been noisily idle, are now in their dens asleep. Something like a shadow passes before your face, swooping downward in quivering flight; you hear the scratching of tiny feet on bark, and there at your shoulder, looking at you with round inquisitive eye, is Molepsis the flying squirrel. He is the gentlest, the most lovable of his tribe, and he belongs to the night. You are watching him, your heart warming to the little fellow, when leaves rustle and a twig cracks.

If your ears were better trained, you would know now what is passing, since no two animals rustle the leaves or snap a twig in precisely the same way. Lacking such lore of the woods, you halt at the first sound, straining your eyes in the gloom. The rustle draws nearer; and there in the shadow stands Hetokh the buck, observing you keenly and asking, “Who are you, Pilgrim, and whither does your trail lead?”

There is no fear in his alert poise, you see; nor does he whirl and bound away in alarm, as you expect him to do, because you know him only by daylight. Receiving no answer, he goes his own way, but haltingly, looking back as he disappears. Then Molepsis loses interest in you, or remembers his small affairs; he runs to the top of his tree, launches himself out in slanting flight, and is swallowed up in the immensity of the dusk. Such a little life to trust itself so boldly in a great darkness!

Again the trail is before you, silent but never lifeless; it seems always to be listening. As you follow it onward, you are wiser than before, having learned the odor of a deer and the meaning of a tiny shadow that often passes before your face in the twilight. You are also more sympathetic, and richer by two happy memories; for the flying squirrel has softened your heart to all innocent creatures, and that questioning pose of the buck has awakened a desire to know more of the real animal, the living mysterious _anima_ of him, not the babble of his death or the jargon of his bones that fill our books of hunting or of science. Meanwhile Kook’skoos the great horned owl is sounding for rain, and his voice is no longer a foreboding; it is a call, an invitation to come and learn.

And speaking of learning, you will not follow the twilight trail very far before it is impressed on your mind that the wild creature you surprise or startle by day is very different from the creature that surprises and often startles you by night. He has at first all the advantage, being at home in dark woods where you are a wary stranger. Then, as you grow familiar with the dusk, more in tune with its harmony, you begin to appreciate this distinction: by day you see a strange wild animal at a distance; by night you may meet him as a fellow traveler on the same road of mystery. This natural equality, this laying aside of all killing or collecting for a live-and-let-live policy, is absolutely essential if you would learn anything worth knowing about the wood folk.

All this is at variance with the prevalent notion that timid beasts spend their nights in a state of terror; but never mind that notion now. It is pure delusion. You will learn from the night woods that the alleged terror of animals is, like their imaginary struggle for existence, the distorted reflection of a human and most unnatural experience. A lone man in the woods after nightfall is like one who has lost his birthright of confidence in nature. His spine goes chilly at every rustling; his overstrained eyes irritate his whole nervous system, which becomes “like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh”; whereupon his imagination conjures up a world of savage beasts and other hallucinations. When he returns to his fire-lighted camp, there to think of small or large creatures roaming the dusk from which he has just escaped with trembling, he easily attributes to them his own human fears or terrors. It does not occur to our fevered fancy that the animal is abroad because he prefers the dusk to the daylight, or that he has, as we shall see, an excellent reason for his preference. The simple fact is that of fear, in any human sense, the wild animal is wholly and happily ignorant.

Let me emphasize, therefore, as the first lesson of the night woods, that they have no fear in them, except such as you carry in your own heart. Banish that fear, and you shall speedily learn this other lesson: by day your civilized man is by force of habit an intruder, a meddlesome adventurer who makes noises and disturbs the peace; but by night his transgressions are covered; he is peaceable because powerless, unable to use his inventions, and nature accepts him as part of a reasonable universe in which sizes vary but rights are all equal. Gradually his spirit, set free from its worldly business, expands into the immensity around him. From the stars and the still night he absorbs tranquillity; and then it is that the animal seems to recognize his changed disposition and meets him unafraid. This, I think, is the most illuminating experience that comes to a man who enters into the spirit of the night, that the wild animal has little or no fear of him.

One evidence of this is the fact that you can come much nearer to an animal by night than by day. Though all his senses are then much better than yours, he will often wait beside trail or waterway till you are almost upon him, when he is apt to startle you as he breaks away. He has sensed you long before you became aware of him, and has been watching you closely; but your approach, timid and halting in the uncertain light, has disarmed his suspicion. Another plain piece of evidence is that the same timid creatures which this morning fled from you, as if you had a demon, will to-night come confidently to your tenting ground, so near that you may be awakened by their low calls or their soft footsteps.

You may think that this careless approach is due to the animal’s ignorance, that he cannot smell you because the scent of men, as of all birds or beasts, is very faint in sleep; and so I thought till I learned better. I think now that it is not the smell of man, but of something variable in man, which arouses an animal’s suspicion. Before a little child, who certainly has the man scent, most timid beasts show no fear whatever, but only a lively curiosity.

Near a permanent camp of mine I once constructed a roof of bark, a shelter open on all sides, wherein to tie trout-flies and do other woodsy work in stormy weather. Soon I noticed fresh tracks all about; then I kept vegetables in the shed, with salt and other things that deer like. One rainy night I heard sounds out there, and crept from my tent to investigate. Some animal slipped away as I approached; but so black was the night that I could not see the shelter till I went beyond and viewed it against the open lake. Presently a shadow glided past to stand under the roof; my nose told me it was a deer, and behind it trotted two smaller shadows that were her fawns. They smelled me, no doubt, and I think they also saw me, their eyes being better than mine in such light; but they showed no alarm until I walked past them on my way to the tent. Then they ran away, but without their usual warning cries, and within a few minutes I heard the doe calling her little ones under the roof again.