138 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 



head of my coffin. There were the great pine 

 trunks rising like roughly carved columns to 

 support the dark roof above. The moon's rays 

 came between them and fell full in my face. I 

 could see up the river, whose ripples were full of 

 bits of moonlight and black shadows, over which 

 hurried shreds of mist. Quiet as was the night, 

 nothing seemed asleep. Nature, shamming re- 

 pose, was moving silently about on mysterious 

 errands of which slumbering man was not to 

 know. The moon sailed on with her convoy of 

 stars westward, the clouds sailed eastward. The 

 river flowed northward, the mists were moving 

 southward. Thousands of frogs mingled their 

 songs on the river banks. The woods were full 

 of slight rustlings of leaves, creakings or snap- 

 pings of twigs, squeaks which seemed vocal, and 

 an undercurrent of sound which was like the 

 hushed breathing of the earth. Then, as though 

 guiding all, came the weird voice of the owl in 

 its strange rhythm and its stranger intonation. 



Midnight passed and went on its long way, 

 but still I did not sleep. Each time the owl 

 spoke I was listening for it. Then a drumming 

 partridge and the frogs gained a share of my 

 hearing and thinking. The latter were leopard 

 frogs, and their chorus was pitched on a low 

 key. One of my friends compares their music 

 to an army snoring in unison ; another to a 



