Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1900-01-02
SOLITUDE OF THE WOODS,
AHve-InsDiring Stiffness Makes Sleep
an ImpossibiIity for Many.

From the Portland (Ne.) Express.
The awe-inspirng stiffness of the first
night in camp! You lie on your back vainly
counting sleep; vainly, l say, because of the
very intense stiffness which should WOO 1t,
but does not, as you are unused to it, Your
guide lies motionless, only his heavy
breathing denoting that he is alive. 1t is
second nature to him to sleep in the heart
of the wilderness, and his tired body no
more than touches the Sweet-scented pine
boughs when he sumbers.
1t will be so with you when you have
accustomed yourself to the preternaturaI
ing vehicles over paved streets, and which
affects you not. But tonight your eye.ds
are opened wide, and instead of the blissful
forSetfulneSS which You anticipated, your
every sense is on the alert to catch and
divine the meaning of the strange noises
which fill the woods of northern Maine.
In front of your rude camp which Is left
open, the smoldering fire smokes and
crackles, each snap of charred embers
sounding to your ears like the report of
artillery. 1t is strange sensation, this
first night in the woods. Away up the
mountainside fox banks. The weird howl
echoes and re-echoes down the mountain
side until it seems to reach the lake and
float along over its glass-like surface until
it is swallowed up In the dark water.
A night owl makes bold to disturb your
already troubled mind by perching on a big
pine not a hundred feet away and sending
forth a screech that curdles your blood I'M
til you realize what it really is. Directly
back of you is the lake shore.
Suddenly comes a soft tread over dried
brush. Surely some IS stealing up to
your camp. You rise to a sitting position
and await the marauders next move. Then
once more you hear the snap-snap-snap of
his feet as he cautiously draws near.
Louder and louder, you cannot be mistaken
this time; this is no trick of the imagina-
ton.
Now he must be directly beside you, with
nothing but a wall of boughs between. You
can stand 1t no longer, and with a half
suppressed yell of excitement you seize
your gun, spring to your feet, dash aside
the light canvas that falls over the front
of the camp just enough to keep out the
smoke and run out prepared to shoot
sight. There is a mad scramble. cracking
of twigs. mad splash, and-the head of
very badly frightened muskrat can just be
seen on the lakes surface as it frantically
pushes Its way into the gloom.
You creep softly back to your boughs
rather ashamed a yourself and glance fur
lively at the guide. who sleeps peacefully
through 1t all. At last nature asserts her
self, and gradually you feel the drows!ness
of approaching slunber steal over you. You
slightly raise your head to take one last
look at the Pickering log that sputters away
outside.
Hist. What's that? Two fiery eyes set
in the framework of impenetrable gloom
beyond the fire seem staring directly at
you. Like Goals, they burn and the words
of your guide. "Oh, yes thar's plenty of
bar ron yere," come back to you with
awful import. Then you hear the tread of
his cushion padded feet moving here and
there. but those awful eyes never once turn
from you. They burn you with their hyp-
MOTTO paleful glare, and with a calmness
you would not have believed you possessed
you softly reach for your rifle
muskrat may be a joke, but hungry
bear prowling within twenty feet of you is
an unsafe guest. You know you are as
white as a sheet. and your hands tremble
as you bring the piece TO your shoulder and
aim directly between those awful greenish-
yellow eyes. Suppose you miss: but no.
You will not. Your finger presses the
trigger.
The roar of your rife sounds like clap
of thunder, and its reverbera tons roll and
chase each other over the tops of the pines
and spruces and startle a thousand Sleep
with their frightened cries they scurry
fly away from your vicinity. It's rude
way to awaken a man. and no wonder your
guide jumps up yelling like a Comanche
Indian and nearly knocks out the back of
the camp as he runs against it.
When he finds YOU pale and trembling
and hears you declare that you have shot
a bear he mutters incredulously. and, light |
ing a lantern. goes out to Investigate. You
hear a loud French-Canuck laugh as he re-
turns carving by the tail a headless chip
munk, which he losses at your feet. You
wan good shot. NJ sieur You beet him |
square. tween de eyes. No shoot better |
meseif. but all tink you narve, what you |
call onstring. you better take wan good |
dreenk go to Sheep"
So are sounds magnfied in the silence of |
first night in the Maine woods.
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