IN THE CATSKILLS 



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 

 seldom reads it; it does not taste good with such 

 primitive 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 spec- 

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

 this scene is. I recall a Canadian poem by the late 

 C. D. Shanly the only one, I believe, the author 

 ever wrote that fits well the distended pupil of 

 the mind's eye about the camp-fire at night. It was 

 printed many years ago in the " Atlantic Monthly," 

 and is called " The Walker of the Snow; " it begins 

 thus: 



" ' Speed on, speed on, good master; 



The camp lies far away; 

 We must cross the haunted valley 

 Before the close of day. ' ' 



" That has a Canadian sound," said Aaron; " give 

 us more of it." 



" ' How the snow-blight came upon me 



I will tell you as we go, 

 The blight of the shadow hunter 

 Who walks the midnight snow.* 



