88 LOCUSTS AND WILD HONEY 



magical writing on a trout's back they would fain 

 decipher, little heeding the warning that what is 

 written here is not given to woman to know. 



Our only tent or roof was the sheltering arms of 

 the great birches and maples. What was sauce for 

 the gander should be sauce for the goose, too, so the 

 goose insisted. 



A luxurious couch of boughs upon springing poles 

 was prepared, and the night should be not less wel- 

 come than the day, which had indeed been idyllic. 

 (A trout dinner had been served by a little spring 

 brook, upon an improvised table covered with moss 

 and decked with ferns, with strawberries from a 

 near clearing.) 



At twilight there was an ominous rumble behind 

 the mountains. I was on the lake, and could see 

 what was brewing there in the west. 



As darkness came on, the rumbling increased, and 

 the mountains and the woods and the still air were 

 such good conductors of sound that the ear was viv- 

 idly impressed. One seemed to feel the enormous 

 convolutions of the clouds in the deep and jarring 

 tones of the thunder. The coming of night in the 

 woods is alone peculiarly impressive, and it is doubly 

 so when out of the darkness comes such a voice as 

 this. But we fed the fire the more industriously, 

 and piled the logs high, and kept the gathering 

 gloom at bay by as large a circle of light as we could 

 command. The lake was a pool of ink and as still 

 as if congealed; not a movement or a sound, save 

 now and then a terrific volley from the cloud bat- 



