He went on, passing through a vast and silent cathedral
of spruce and cedar so dense that the sky was hidden, and came
then to higher ground, where the evergreen was sprinkled with
birch and poplar. About him was an invisible choir of voices, the
low twittering of timid little gray-backs, the song of hidden--
warblers, the scolding of distant jays. Big-eyed moose-birds
stared at him as he passed, fluttering so close to his face that
they almost touched his shoulders in their foolish
inquisitiveness. A porcupine crashed within a dozen feet of his
trail. And then he came to a beaten path, and other paths worn
deep in the cool, damp earth by the hoofs of moose and caribou.
Half a mile from the bateau he sat down on a rotting log and
filled his pipe with fresh tobacco, while he listened to catch the
subdued voice of the life in this land that he loved.
It was then that the curious feeling came over him that he was not
alone, that other eyes than those of beast and bird were watching
him. It was an impression that grew on him. He seemed to feel
their stare, seeking him out from the darkest coverts, waiting for
him to shove on, dogging him like a ghost.
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