312 Musings by Camp- Fire and Wayside 



it shone like molten silver, polished the tube of my 

 gun till, held against the light, it looked as if it 

 were loaded to the muzzle with sunbeams. A dark 

 night fire-hunt is intensely exciting. Some years 

 ago some kind of a cat, a wolverine or lynx, went 

 bounding down the shore, turning its big balls of 

 fire on my lamp for a glance, and then leaping away 

 and looking again. I tried to bring my gun to 

 bear, but it was too quick, and when it leaped into 

 the woods I was panting as if my breath were about 

 to leave me. 



The crimson moon was looking through the 

 eastern trees, and the afterglow through the west- 

 ern, when Gordon and I, in moccasined feet, started 

 on a stealthy tramp. It was at once one of the 

 brightest and stillest of nights, not a breath of air, 

 not a ripple, not the faintest whisper in the pines, 

 nothing but the big moon and the flecks of light 

 through the shadows of the forests on the shores. 

 Two hoot-owls took advantage of the vacancy and 

 had the whole landscape for their audience. There 

 was the difference of three notes of the octave in 

 their voices, a pair, I suppose, serenading each 

 other. When they were satisfied with their ex- 

 changes of compliments, they sped away on their 

 noiseless wings, flying in the shadow where they 

 could, but crossing in white flashes the bars of 

 moonlight. We paused on the first lake we came 

 to and listened. One's heart makes a great deal 

 of noise at such a time, and for a moment we 



