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.
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