Impressions 



night it seems a boundless wilderness. Try 

 walking through and through it, this way and 

 that, where there are no paths, and let an owl 

 hoot in your ears and you will then know what 

 I mean far better than words can tell. 



It so happened I was in the immediate valley 

 of Crosswicks Creek long after sunset, yester- 

 night. The tide was well run out and long, low 

 banks of mud were exposed. On these the 

 night-herons were stalking or standing, sentinel- 

 like, and back on higher ground the toads were 

 bellowing. Black clouds obscured the sky but 

 left wide star-dotted spaces between them. 

 There was no sight nor sound of man. Again 

 it was the weird, wild country of the Indian or 

 before his time. The mastodon might have 

 sounded his shrill, trumpet-like cry and I would 

 not have been disturbed. The wolf might have 

 howled or the cougar screamed, but only fear 

 would have been aroused. As it was, the fishes 

 leaping above the surface of the out-flowing 

 waters, the splash of the turtles sliding from a 

 projecting stump or floating log, the warning 

 cry of the muskrat and possibly that of the 

 mink, forcibly reminded me that I was far from 

 being alone. 



77 



