ered into the
woods. He was on the edge of a forest whose tangled fringe of birch
and elm hung over the greening water. But just behind this fringe was
a little clearing, all smothered in riotous undergrowth. Scotty ran
his canoe up on the sandy beach, her bow sweeping aside the drooping
elm branches, and leaped ashore. He plunged into the little tangled
circle of undergrowth, and at the first sight gave a boyish whoop of
delight.

In the centre of the space, facing the water, stood an old log shanty,
a temporary structure erected in the lumbering days. It contained
bunks filled with straw. Here was the very place to spend the night;
it seemed waiting for him. He set to work to make camp with the skill
of a lifelong practice. A splendid black bass that responded hungrily
to his bait made a fine addition to his larder. He soon had a merry
fire in front of the cabin, sending a blue column of smoke straight
into the treetops, and when it burned down to a bed of coals he cooked
his fish. Supper was soon over, the canoe stowed safely high up on the
shore, and he had nothing to do but enjoy the silence and peace of the
wild, lonely spot. He built up his fire again, partly because the May
night was cool and partly to keep off the mosquitoes, and stretched
himself full length upon the ground before it. It was the first time
in months that he had been absolutely at peace. Around him was the
encircling forest, which bulked largely in his earliest memories, and
always gave him the sensation of being at home. The sweet pungent
odour of burning evergreens filled the air, mingling with the scents of
the forest. Above the dark ring of wild, luxuriant growth the sky
shone a clear transparent crystal, with faint illusive suggestions of
rose and orange, for out there in the wide world the sun was setting,
and Lake Simcoe glinted between the tree trunks flushed and smiling.
The little breeze of the afternoon had died away, and not a leaf
stirred; only where the subsiding waves disturbed the shells and
pebbles on the beach could be heard a soft whispering rustle.

But as the night fell, from the darkening forest there arose the
evening chorus of the birds. Each tall pine tree, silhouetted sharply
against the crystal sky, was soon ringing with the transporting vespers
of the veery. Away back on a hill, far above the little clearing, a
whip-poor-will stationed himself in a treetop to complain over and over
of the darkness