A BED OF BOUGHS 161 



mind next day that he does when the same interrup- 

 tion 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 

 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 "At- 

 lantic Monthly," and is oaUed "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.' 



