THE THUNDERSTORM 63 



shore, equipped with all needful camping utensils. 

 A pile of logs lay ready for use, which had been 

 chopped by the last occupant of the shelter, a rule 

 strictly observed amongst the rangers. A man, wet 

 to the skin, and weary after a long march through 

 the forest, perhaps with the weight of a deer on his 

 shoulder, beaches his canoe on the lonely shore. In 

 the cheery blaze of the logs ready to hand, he can at 

 least trace out some sense of human companionship 

 and forethought. 



In the small hours of the night I was awaked by 

 the noise of something like the march of a distant 

 army. The contrast with the absolute stillness that 

 preceded it must have aroused me. I had been lying 

 awake for some time obsessed with the silence. The 

 forest was mute, no wave of the lake lapped the 

 shore, nothing but the weird screech of the night 

 hawk as it snapped at the flies in its zigzag flight, 

 could be heard. I kept listening for its return as it 

 took in our resting place in its round at irregular 

 intervals . . . then I fell asleep, to be roused into 

 heart-beating wakefulness. The march had com- 

 menced; far off" it began, then drew nearer across the 

 tree tops, evoking the deep resonance of the pines, 

 and fell with a crash on the lake, an awful storm ! 

 How much was rain, and how much thunder I could 

 not say, the two streams seemed to meet and mingle, 

 supplementing each other, negativing each other. A 

 flash that lit up the open doorway of our shelter in a 



