I STEPPED out into the sable dark- 
1 ness, the darkness before dawn. No 
friendly light appeared villageward, and 
the valley between the mountains 1 was 
as silent as death. Beyond a black 
range, the moon hung round and pale, 
and the spires of squat fir against the 
dying glow seemed like something out 
of a tale of dream and phantasy. My 
footsteps turned to the road, the long 
black road to the forest, the brook, the 
mountains in the west where a hold 
crown called Moosilauke looked down 
on the silence and the evergreens. 
An early and unfettered_ get-away is 
an important item in a day’s excursion; 
it is the beginning of a perfect day, a 
mood in which man and his desires are 
one. With the soft closing of a door 
and a step into the night I attained 
achievement; I desired the labor and ap¬ 
peals of manuscripts and journals and 
won a punitive triumph over an indi¬ 
vidual working mood. A-tremble to the 
ache and sob and sigh of Spring, listen¬ 
ing to the songs of the marching 
migrants, inhaling odors swept off spruce 
slopes and out of little valleys clamorous 
with brook waters, I had a sudden dis¬ 
taste for that most exciting and ad¬ 
venturous labor we know as literal y 
work, and a gentle yet grim spirit within 
rebelled in such violence that I knew 
further endeavors to be flat and long- 
drawn. Spring was calling, and brooks 
were singing the song of all songs. Why 
linger in torment, when such lures were 
abroad ? 
How few mundane dwellers know the 
night road, with its mystery and hidden 
sounds and unworldly features. In the 
solitary moments of night walking the 
sences of man become acute and vibrant 
with expectancy, and man enjoys a 
deeper and more penetrating vision, a 
hearing attuned to the slightest sound, 
a mind more restless and imaginative. 
The sences of feel and smell become 
doubly sensitive; the cheeks glow under 
the barest vicissitude of wandering airs 
stirred by distant winds; the nose de¬ 
tects the faintest of odors which ride the 
soft invisible zephyrs. Revolutionary in 
quality, exclusive in mood and environ¬ 
ment, the night road lures man to its im¬ 
measurable miles, and sounds heard in 
the darkness have a dramatic beginning, 
an adventurous ending which the light 
and vision of day cannot give, and the 
spell becomes poetic on account of ab¬ 
sence of shape and form. In the dark 
man feels the fear, not cowardice nor • 
sheer danger, the ages have given him, 
and as he succumbs to the haunting 
witchery of silence and darkness, of hid¬ 
den road and dim skies, he becomes part 
and portion of the very night itself. 
With half-awakened, heavy-lidded 
eyes, I sought the middle of the road 
and headed westward, a matter of five 
or six miles of steady trend upward. 
Stepping briskly along the weights of 
camera, field-glasses, rod and tackle, the 
odds and ends of personal wants safe in 
a duck shoulder-bag which is a combi¬ 
nation affair for outfit and creel, every¬ 
thing adjusted themselves to my body— 
they found their resting place and re¬ 
mained. The air was clear and cold 
with a tinge of frost, and a moistened 
wind essayed off the lowlands, its breath 
rife with the small of wet leaves and 
grasses. A personal excitement pre¬ 
vailed in this flight and pilgrimage in 
quest of soltitude and trout, and I noticed 
the silence was so unbroken and deep 
that it seemed a sudden sound, even the 
liquid night-notes of some bird, might 
shatter it. Over the fields and foothills, 
I heard the long roll of winds, but down 
along the road the trees were hidden 
and silent. Overhead, the bivouac of 
countless stars gleamed like the fires of 
a great encampment, and in the south¬ 
east Venus shone resplendent and lonely, 
a dazzling light in a sea of stars. 
Softly, suddenly, the fabric of silence 
collapsed. Something moved on the 
road; I heard the scratch of claws on 
hard ground, a rustle of grasses, and a 
lance-like beam of the flashlight revealed 
a black and stalky woodchuck walking 
calmly into the bushes. It seemed in no 
apparent hurry, never paused to glance 
at the white light, and passed from sight. 
Again on my way, I added a mental note 
for the storehouse of natural history to 
be set down later relative to woodchucks 
wandering at night. 
It is a scientific fact that wild life 
moves in waves at times quite uncertain 
and inconstant. The fact was borne out 
along the miles of the road, but not in 
waves, just the presence and appearance 
of isolated forms now and then which 
lifted the walk out of the rut of mono- 
tonv. Mice and voles thronged the road¬ 
sides where coarse grasses grew in pro¬ 
fusion and the ground seeped with water 
from hidden springs. Varying hares, 
now wearing their summer coats, were 
abundant and their ground thumping 
was general; I heard much running m 
the small growth, squeaks and little 
grantings, and wondered if the rut were 
running so late in the Spring. Again, 
the crash of some heavy animal fleeing 
forestward sent the blood into turmoil, 
shot my whole being with a vibrant ex¬ 
pectancy, and then the silence drifted 
down until light steps in soft pliable 
leather seemed loud and measured. 
The pallid moon had slipped behind 
the ranges, but the stars still held theii 
fires with steady glow. The road was 
graying, gradually emerging from the 
darkness, and yet'the night and distance 
of a yard or so remained as black a; 
ever .' Forest lined the road, and it wa; 
invisible. Overhead, between the fai 
flung tassels of hemlock and pine I saw 
the " sky. Looking down I noted the 
road; beyond, I could see nothing; ane 
so my eyes were becoming acclimatee 
to the darkness. 
At intermittent times owls hooted, ane 
mce I heard the swish and purr o 
-elvet wings directly overhead. Then 
vas the soft, not quite unmusical, "wo 
rank, wo-hunk” of the long-eared owl 
here were the conversational who 
vhos” and “too-whos” of the barrel 
iwls, one on each side of the road, am 
hey kept it up until I passed out o 
learing; and lastly, the far-away, waver 
n g trill of the little screech owl. Du 
o^ fable and superstition, and stone 
passed down the years of generation; 
die voices of the owls have given nigh 
an evil reputation. To one who know 
and loves night in all its sable mysten 
its haunting beauty, its poetry of phati 
tasy and adventure of hidden sound; 
the' eerie and strange voices of the owl 
add rather than subtract to the splendo 
of something so constant and measure 
in life and yet so little known Ho 1 
few people know the march of nigh 
between the suns, across the landscape? 
The invasion of the migratory birc 
had not ceased, and as all good orn 
thologists know, the flights take plac 
1 .. • i , 'T__ firm 
tring the night. Two or three time 
heard birdy notes which I knew t 
dong to the warblers—soft, isolate 
ites dropped from full throats, falhr 
itil caught by ground winds audio 
1111 LdUgm -~ r-pi 
the ache and surge of solitude, i ho. 
LUC ct^nv- emu -~ - . , 
issers flung no song to earth just 
w notes, fragments broken and wis 
il, and bird melody so heard was 2 
ranescent thing. 
Somewhere in the forest, animate 
id wafted by indolent winds, swept ti 
-ep rapid drumming of the ruffe 
rouse, a challenge to every cock tl 
mg roll of the song of love to the hen 
hen the wind swept out of hearm 
id another sound awoke the forest str 
sound of falling- waters, tl 
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