histle of the
whip-poor-will. And with my mind's eye I saw the dusky bird: shooting
slantways upward in its low flight which ends in a nearly perpendicular
slide down to within ten or twelve feet from the ground, the bird being
closely followed by a second one pursuing. In reality I did not see the
birds, but I heard the fast whir of their wings.

Another bird I saw but did not hear. It was a small owl. The owl's
flight is too silent, its wing is down-padded. You may hear its
beautiful call, but you will not hear its flight, even though it circle
right around your head in the dusk. This owl crossed my path not more
than an inch or two in front. It nearly grazed my forehead, so that I
blinked. Oh, how I felt reassured! I believe, tears welled in my eyes.
When I come to the home of frog and toad, of gartersnake and owl and
whip-poor-will, a great tenderness takes possession of me, and I should
like to shield and help them all and tell them not to be afraid of me;
but I rather think they know it anyway.

The road swung north, and then east again; we skirted the woods; we came
to the bridge; it turned straight north; the horse fell into a walk. I
felt that henceforth I could rely on my sense of orientation to find
the road. It was pitch dark in the bush--the thin slice of the moon
had reached the horizon and followed the sun; no light struck into the
hollow which I had to thread after turning to the southeast for a while.
But as if to reassure me once more and still further of the absolute
friendliness of all creation for myself--at this very moment I saw high
overhead, on a dead branch of poplar, a snow white owl, a large one,
eighteen inches tall, sitting there in state, lord as he is of the realm
of night...

Peter walked--though I did not see the road, the horse could not mistake
it. It lay at the bottom of a chasm of trees and bushes. I drew my cloak
somewhat closer around and settled back. This cordwood trail took us on
for half a mile, and then we came to a grade leading east. The grade
was rough; it was the first one of a network of grades which were being
built by the province, not primarily for the roads they afforded, but
for the sake of the ditches of a bold and much needed drainage-system.
To this very day these yellow grades of the pioneer country along the
lake lie like naked scars on Nature's body: ugly raw, as if the bowels
were torn out of a beautiful bird and left to dry and rot on its
plumage. Age wil