of giant birds that one finds in the
rocks of the Pliocene era, deep under the earth's surface, to tell what
sort of creatures lived in the vast solitudes before man came to
replenish the earth and subdue it.

Closely associated with this suggestion of antiquity in Quoskh's
demeanor is the opposite suggestion of perpetual youth which he carries
with him. Age has no apparent effect on him whatsoever. He is as old and
young as the earth itself is; he is a March day, with winter and spring
in its sunset and sunrise. Who ever saw a blue heron with his jewel eye
dimmed or his natural force abated? Who ever caught one sleeping, or saw
him tottering weakly on his long legs, as one so often sees our common
wild birds clinging feebly to a branch with their last grip? A Cape Cod
sailor once told me that, far out from land, his schooner had passed a
blue heron lying dead on the sea with outstretched wings. That is the
only heron that I have ever heard of who was found without all his wits
about him. Possibly, if Quoskh ever dies, it may suggest a solution to
the question of what becomes of him. With his last strength he may fly
boldly out to explore that great ocean mystery, along the borders of
which his ancestors for untold centuries lived and moved, back and
forth, back and forth, on their endless, unnecessary migrations,
restless, unsatisfied, wandering, as if the voice of the sea were
calling them whither they dared not follow.

* * * * *

Just behind my tent on the big lake, one summer, a faint, woodsy little
trail wandered away into the woods, with endless turnings and twistings,
and without the faintest indication anywhere, till you reached the very
end, whither it intended going. This little trail was always full of
interesting surprises. Red squirrels peeked down at you over the edge of
a limb, chattering volubly and getting into endless mischief along its
borders. Moose birds flitted silently over it on their mysterious
errands. Now a jumping, smashing, crackling rush through the underbrush
halts you suddenly, with quick beating heart, as you climb over one of
the many windfalls across your path. A white flag followed by another
little one, flashing, rising, sinking and rising again over the fallen
timber, tells you that a doe and her fawn were lying behind the
windfall, all unconscious of your quiet approach. Again, at a turn of
the trail, something dark, gray, massive looms before you