areful than
the comfort of his couch. On the second day, under guidance of his host,
Rolf set about making his own bed. Two logs, each four inches thick and
three feet long, were cut. Then two strong poles, each six feet long,
were laid into notches at the ends of the short logs. About seventy-five
straight sticks of willow were cut and woven with willow bark into a
lattice, three feet wide and six feet long. This, laid on the poles,
furnished a spring mattress, on which a couple of blankets made a most
comfortable couch, dry, warm, and off the ground. In addition to the
lodge cover, each bed had a dew cloth which gave perfect protection, no
matter how the storm might rage outdoors. There was no hardship in it,
only a new-found pleasure, to sleep and breathe the pure night air of
the woods.

The Grass Moon--April--had passed, and the Song Moon was waxing, with
its hosts of small birds, and one of Rolf's early discoveries was that
many of these love to sing by night. Again and again the familiar voice
of the song sparrow came from the dark shore of Asamuk, or the field
sparrow trilled from the top of some cedar, occasionally the painted
one, Aunakeu, the partridge, drummed in the upper woods, and nightly
there was the persistent chant of Muckawis, the whippoorwill, the myriad
voices of the little frogs called spring-peepers, and the peculiar,
"peent, peent," from the sky, followed by a twittering, that Quonab told
him was the love song of the swamp bird--the big snipe, with the fantail
and long, soft bill, and eyes like a deer.

"Do you mean the woodcock?" "Ugh, that's the name; Pah-dash-ka-anja we
call it."

The waning of the moon brought new songsters, with many a nightingale
among them. A low bush near the plain was vocal during the full moon
with the sweet but disconnected music of the yellow-breasted chat. The
forest rang again and again with a wild, torrential strain of music
that seemed to come from the stars. It sent peculiar thrill into Rolf's
heart, and gave him a lump his throat as he listened.

"What is that, Quonab?"

The Indian shook his head. Then, later, when it ended, he said: "That
is the mystery song of some one I never saw him."

There was a long silence, then the lad began, "There's no good hunting
here now, Quonab. Why don't you go to the north woods, where deer are
plentiful?"

The Indian gave a short shake of his head, and then to prevent further
talk, "Put up your dew cloth; the sea wind