332 Trails to Woods and Waters 



small horned owls were already hatched in the 

 hollow top of some tree in the black ash 

 swamp. 



Or maybe the lull between gusts from na- 

 ture's mighty bellows would be punctuated 

 with the sharp bark of a fox, some night 

 prowler in search of a partridge or a field 

 mouse. 



If the night was very cold occasionally the 

 crust upon the snow would snap with a report 

 like the crack of a rifle. 



How well I knew all these night sounds, 

 and what they meant, thanks to my kind old 

 Woodsman Friend. 



From listening to the outdoor sounds I 

 would fall to studying the queer shapes that 

 came and went in the firelight, or in the great 

 clouds of steam that danced over the sap pan. 

 Hobgoblins and ghosts without end. 



I never could make out whether it was the 

 howling of the wind and the snapping of the 

 fire, or the bubbling of the sap, or all three 

 that made me so sleepy. 



When Ben had made everything snug for 



