IN THE OPEN 



vibrations of an orchestra. Starting at some center, 

 as if at a signal, these tremulous waves of sound 

 recede farther and farther into the forest and die 

 away in a sigh. 



Here the tendency grows on one to wander in 

 the early morning and again in late afternoon, to 

 become crepuscular, like the animals, and to stay 

 in camp in the middle of the day. Deer do not 

 stir abroad in the heat, nor do fish bite, nor birds 

 sing. This love of dawn and twilight is partly 

 inspired by fear of man, but it is none the less 

 natural. At daybreak the deer go down the canons 

 to the salt-licks, as surreptitiously as nymphs going 

 to bathe. It is their witching hour, as midnight 

 is the owls'. 



To arise at dawn should be an occasion; to 

 make it usual would mean the sacrifice of the 

 more subtle impressions, the mind is so readily 

 blunted by the habitual. 



Like a black mantle the great forest lies over 

 the earth as I roll myself in my blankets beside 

 the fire. That little flaring light appears to be the 

 only one in this dark wilderness, reclaiming a 

 minute portion of space and making it habitable. 

 Wherever one may be in the forest, it is only 



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