212 THE STORY OF THE TRAPPER 



In all the world, there is nothing so ghostly silent, 

 so deathly quiet as the swamp woods, muffled in the 

 snow of midwinter, just at nightfall. By day, the 

 grouse may utter a lonely cluck-cluck, or the snow- 

 buntings chirrup and twitter and flutter from drift 

 to hedge-top, or the saucy jay shriek some scolding 

 impudence. A squirrel may chatter out his noisy pro 

 test at some thief for approaching the nuts which lie 

 cached under the rotten leaves at the foot of the tree, 

 or the sun-warmth may set the melting snow shower 

 ing from the swan s-down branches with a patter like 

 rain. But at nightfall the frost has stilled the drip 

 of thaw. Squirrel and bird are wrapped in the utter 

 quiet of a gray darkness. And the marauders that 

 fill midnight with sharp bark, shrill trembling scream, 

 deep baying over the snow are not yet abroad in the 

 woods. All is shadowless stillness a quiet that is 

 audible. 



Koot turned sharply and whistled and called his 

 dog. There wasn t a sound. Later when the frost 

 began to tighten, sap-frozen twigs would snap. The 

 ice of the swamp, frozen like rock, would by-and-bye 

 crackle with the loud echo of a pistol-shot crackle 

 and strike and break as if artillery were firing a fusil 

 lade and infantry shooters answering sharp. By-and- 

 bye, moon and stars and Northern Lights would set the 

 shadows dancing; and the wall of the cougar would be 

 echoed by the lifting scream of its mate. But now, 

 was not a sound, not a motion, not a shadow, only the 

 noiseless stillness, the shadowless quiet, and the 

 feel, the feel of something back where the darkness was 

 gathering like a curtain in the bush. 



It might, of course, be only a silly long-ears loping 



