It was a misty morning before 

 sunrise when the canoes stole out 

 from the landing at Camp Musca- 

 longe and took their several ghostly 

 ways, Bobbie's west, Sally's south, 

 and ours north toward the head- 

 waters of White Lake. The canoe 

 was light, Nimrod at the bow 

 paddle and Bert at the stern. An 

 hour's silence, broken only by the 

 lilililiooo of the loon, and the dip, 

 dip, of the paddles brought us nearly 

 four miles to the boggy willow 

 marshes of the outlet. Beyond were 

 stretches of ragged pines that were 

 outlined only as black masses in the 

 half-light. 



What a weird place it was, beau- 

 tiful and unreal as the shadow land 

 of poets. The silence was the silence 

 that bound the world before humans 

 were. It gripped one with a sense 

 of finality as though never could it 

 change, and yet of suspense, for 

 knowledge told that outside this 

 witched circle of water and trees 

 the world was in motion, the sun 

 was marking its allotted course, and 

 the animals too were astir, drawing 

 over the country their accustomed 



