along. Hukweem was a young loon, and 

 was long in coming down. The crying 

 ahead grew louder. Stirred up from their Tfuktaeem 

 day rest by his arrival, the other loons began Sl^.^U^"'^ 

 their sport earlier than usual. The crying 

 soon became almost continuous, and I fol- 

 lowed it straight to the lake. 



Once there, it was a simple matter to find 

 the river and my old canoe waiting patiently 

 under the alders in the gathering twilight. 

 Soon I was afloat again, with a sense of 

 unspeakable relief that only one can appre- 

 ciate who has been lost and now hears the 

 ripples sing under him, knowing that the 

 cheerless woods lie behind, and that the camp- 

 fire beckons beyond yonder point. The 

 loons were hallooing far away, and I went 

 over — this time in pure gratitude — to see 

 them again. But my guide was modest and 

 vanished post-haste into the mist the moment 

 my canoe appeared. 



Since then, whenever I hear Hukweem 

 in the night, or hear others speak of his 

 unearthly laughter, I think of that cry over 

 the tree-tops, and the thrilling answer far 



