motes of tbe 



starlight, and what I may call the snow-light, they 

 towered a full two hundred. I had been reading that 

 day Muir's volume, and the mountains of California 

 seemed to have settled on the Jersey meadows. 



Fortunately we do not need the eyes of an owl 

 to see in comparative darkness. The image may 

 be obscured, but our senses are so alert that sight 

 is aided, and we have a lively appreciation of 

 what happens. This, at least, is true when we 

 deliberately set out to study the night-side of na- 

 ture, but not so true when the element of fear 

 enters into the question. If it is not overcome, 

 the world after dark must remain a terra incog- 

 nita, and accepted at second-hand. I am not 

 sure that it is ever completely overcome, and so 

 thoroughly cool and collected study of the nat- 

 ural history of night may be impracticable. Peo- 

 ple, of course, resent being called cowards, but 

 when, walking alone on an unfrequented meadow, 

 and at dead of night, the wind happens to gather 

 up a hundred dead leaves and sends them after 

 you with a great noise, you are not disposed to 

 observe them hurry by without wishing you were 

 sure of their identity as dead leaves. Every in- 

 animate object seems more than ordinarily alive 

 and charged with some uncanny message. Draw 

 a distinction between being startled and fright- 

 ened if you will, but, whichever it may be, in 

 every case it robs night rambling of some portion 

 of its charm. 



10 



