Hukweem the Night Voice. 153 



underbrush thick ; fallen logs lie across each other in 

 hopeless confusion, through and under and over which 

 one must make his laborious way, stung and pestered 

 by hordes of black flies and mosquitoes. So that, 

 unless you have a strong instinct of direction, it is 

 almost impossible to hold your course without a 

 compass, or a bright sun, to guide you. 



I had not gone half the distance before I was astray. 

 The sun was long obscured, and a drizzling rain set 

 in, without any direction whatever in it by the time it 

 reached the underbrush where I was. I had begun to 

 make a little shelter, intending to put in a cheerless 

 night there, when I heard a cry, and looking up 

 caught a glimpse of Hukweem speeding high over 

 the tree-tops. Far down on my right came a faint 

 answering cry, and I hastened in its direction, making 

 an Indian compass of broken twigs as I went along. 

 Hukweem was a young loon, and was long in coming 

 down. The crying ahead grew louder. Stirred up 

 from their day rest by his arrival, the other loons 

 began their sport earlier than usual. The crying 

 soon became almost continuous, and I followed 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. 



