A BED OF BOUGHS. 181 



that possesses him. Certain it is he feels the hush 

 and solitude of the great forest, and whether he will 

 or not all his musings are in some way cast upon 

 that huge background of the night. Unless he is an 

 old camper- out there will be an under-current of 

 dread or half fear. My companion said he could not 

 help but feel all the time that there ought to be a 

 sentinel out there pacing up and down. One seems 

 to require less sleep in the woods, as if the ground 

 and the un tempered air rested and refreshed him 

 sooner. The balsam and the hemlock heal his aches 

 very quickly. If one is awakened often during the 

 night, as he invariably is, he does not feel that sedi- 

 ment of sleep in his mind next day that he does 

 when the same interruption occurs at home ; the 

 boughs have drawn it all out of him. 



And it is wonderful how rarely any of the housed 

 and tender white man's colds or influenzas come 

 through these open doors and windows of the woods. 

 It is our partial isolation from Nature that is dan- 

 gerous ; throw yourself unreservedly upon her and 

 she rarely betrays you. 



If one takes anything to the woods to read he sel- 

 dom reads it ; it does not taste good with such primi- 

 tive air. 



There 'are very few camp poems that I know of, 

 poems that would be at home with one on such an 

 expedition ; there is plenty that is weird and spectral, 

 as in Poe, but little that is woody and wild as this 

 icene is. I recall a Canadian poem by the late C. 



