Over Prairie Trails | Page 7

consisted of
nothing but a line of muddy pools strung along the bottom of its bed. In
summer these were a favourite haunting place for mosquito-and-
fly-plagued cows. There the great beasts would lie down in the mud
and placidly cool their punctured skins. A few miles southwest the
creek petered out entirely in a bed of shaly gravel bordering on the Big
Marsh which I had skirted in my drive and a corner of which I was
crossing just now.
The road was better here and spoke of more traffic. It was used to haul
cordwood in late winter and early spring to a town some ten or fifteen
miles to the southwest. So I felt sure again I was not lost but would
presently emerge on familiar territory. The horse seemed to know it,
too, for he raised his head and went at a better gait.
A few minutes passed. There was hardly a sound from my vehicle. The
buggy was rubber-tired, and the horse selected a smooth ribbon of grass
to run on. But from the black forest wall there came the soughing of the
wind and the nocturnal rustle of things unknown. And suddenly there
came from close at hand a startling sound: a clarion call that tore the

veil lying over my mental vision: the sharp, repeated whistle 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 will mellow them down into harmony.
Peter had walked for nearly half an hour. The ditch was north of the
grade. I had passed, without seeing it, a newly cut-out road to the north
which led to a lonesome schoolhouse in the bush. As always when I
passed or thought of it, I had wondered where through this
wilderness-tangle of bush and brush the children came from to fill
it--walking through winter-snows, through summer-muds, for two,
three, four miles or more to get their meagre share of the accumulated
knowledge of the world. And the teacher! Was it the money? Could it
be when