172 THE LOG OF A TIMBER CRUISER 
The stars were glorious, clear and diamond bright. 
The sky seemed truly alive. It quivered and glowed 
with an intense, coruscant energy. How could any 
one ever feel lonely, I wondered, with such an in- 
finitude of sparkling, vibrant bodies all about, all 
parts and partakers of the same great life, all dwel- 
ling, forever and ever, in the same universe that 
holds our tiny, insignificant selves. 
As darkness grew deeper we could see little or 
nothing of the park below us, only at times a faint 
glimmer of light showed the position of the Lost 
Man’s grave. A little later the moon rose, slow and 
serene, swimming sensuously in the low hung mists. 
And as she rose faint outlines of light trembled in 
the even blackness of the forest round about. And 
like a face forming, feature by feature, from the 
folds of a velvet curtain, there shone more clearly 
each moment the glade of glistening grass, tree 
ringed on every side, and plain and plainer we saw 
the dim ‘cairn of stones, the wooden cross at its foot, 
and the great fir, the wanderer’s tombstone, at its 
head. 
Then in the mystical half light a spell was woven. 
Objects took on strange shapes, became wavering 
grotesques, fanciful and unfamiliar. The tall 
bearded grass was gone. Instead there shimmered 
a shaking field of silver spears, like the weapons of 
the Sons of the Dragon’s Teeth bursting magically 
from the earth. And on every side, hemming them 
in, awaiting fearfully their onslaught, loomed in the 
