LOST MAN’S PARK tf 1. 
slay, entered the mountains one blustering fall with 
inadequate supplies, and a little later, lost and ill, 
seated himself at the foot of the huge tree which 
forms now his titanic tombstone and there died, his 
purpose unfulfilled and his heart bitter within him. 
This, averred the more imaginative, was the reason 
why the spirit of the Lost Man stole forth still some- 
times in the dead of night and pursued once more 
through the dark corridors of the forest the unfin- 
ished quest of days gone by. 
The park was a pleasant place by daylight, under 
the golden sun. A court of waving grasses and wild 
flowers of many colours, a bower of sweet odours 
and bright hues, a rare spot to lie and dream, in the 
hours when work was over, gazing lazily upward 
at the blue circle of sky with its dark border of 
softly stirring tree tops. The tiny glade had a 
charm. We spent all our leisure moments there. 
And our words and thoughts were ever of life—as 
was natural—and of living things, with never, or 
rarely, a glance or a passing mention for that 
menacing hint of mortality, the stony grave close by. 
It was otherwise at night. A few of us strolled 
over after supper on the evening of the day we made 
camp. We sat on a little rise overlooking the park 
and built a fire for warmth, though the night was 
more than ordinarily mild. But the firelight in our 
eyes blew out the soft winking stars and I moved 
away before long, a little distance from the flames, 
the better to enjoy the scene. 
