playground.
He had studied the knack of noiseless paddling under the teaching of a
skilled forest guide until he fairly brought it to perfection. And, in
perfection, it is about the most wizard-like art practised in the
nineteenth century.

The silent propulsion was managed thus: the grand master of the paddle
gripped its cross handle in both hands, working it so that its broad
blade cut the water first backward then forward so dexterously that not
even his own practised hearing could detect a sound; nor could he any
more than Neal feel a sensation of motion.

The birch-bark skiff skimmed onward as if borne on unseen pinions.

To Neal Farrar, who had been brought up amid the tumult of rival noises
and the practical surroundings of Manchester, England, who was a
stranger to the solitudes of primitive forests, and almost a stranger to
weird experiences, the silent advance was a mystery. And it began to be
a hateful one; for he had not even the poor explanation of it which has
been given in this record.

It was only his third night in Maine wilds; and I fear that his friend
Cyrus, when inviting him to join in the jacking excursion, had refrained
from explaining the canoe mystery, mischievously promising himself
considerable fun from the English lad's bewilderment.

Neal's hearing was strained to catch any sound of big game beating
about amid the bushes on shore or splashing in the water, but none
reached him. The night seemed to grow stiller, stiller, ever stiller, as
they glided towards the head of the pond, until the dead quiet started
strange, imaginary noises.

There was a pounding as of dull hammers in his ears, a belling in his
head, and a drumming at his heart.

He was tortured by a wild desire to yell his loudest, and defy the
brooding silence.

Another--a midnight watchman--broke it instead.

"Whoo-ho-ho-whah-whoo!"

It was the thrilling scream of a big-eyed owl as he chased a squirrel to
its death, and proceeded to banquet in unwinking solemnity.

"Whoo-ho-ho-whah-whoo!"

Neal started,--who wouldn't?--and joggled the canoe, thereby nearly
ending the night hunt at once by the untimely discharge of his rifle.

He had barely regained some measure of steadiness, though he felt as if
needles were sticking into him all over, when at last there was a
crashing amid the bushes on the right bank, not a hundred yards distant.

Noiselessly as ever the canoe shot around, turning the jack's eye in
that direct