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