172 THE LOO OF A TIMBER CRUISEE 



The stars were glorious, clear and diamond bright. 

 The sky seemed truly alive. It quivered and glowed 

 with an intense, coruscant energy. How could any 

 one ever feel lonely, I wondered, with such an in- 

 finitude of sparkling, vibrant bodies all about, all 

 parts and partakers of the same great life, all dwel- 

 ling, forever and ever, in the same universe that 

 holds our tiny, insignificant selves. 



As darkness grew deeper we could see little or 

 nothing of the park below us, only at times a faint 

 glimmer of light showed the position of the Lost 

 Man's grave. A little later the moon rose, slow and 

 serene, swimming sensuously in the low hung mists. 

 And as she rose faint outlines of light trembled in 

 the even blackness of the forest round about. And 

 like a face forming, feature by feature, from the 

 folds of a velvet curtain, there shone more clearly 

 each moment the glade of glistening grass, tree 

 ringed on every side, and plain and plainer we saw 

 the dim cairn of stones, the wooden cross at its foot, 

 and the great fir, the wanderer's tombstone, at its 

 head. 



Then in the mystical half light a spell was woven. 

 Objects took on strange shapes, became wavering 

 grotesques, fanciful and unfamiliar. The tall 

 bearded grass was gone. Instead there shimmered 

 a shaking field of silver spears, like the weapons of 

 the Sons of the Dragon's Teeth bursting magically 

 from the earth. And on every side, hemming them 

 in, awaiting fearfully their onslaught, loomed in the 



