The conversation dragged, then died
a natural death; each was busy with his thoughts, and there was,
moreover, an impressive and repressive something or other all around
them. Not a stillness, for there were many sounds, but beyond those
a sort of voiceless background that showed up all the myriad voices.
Some of these were evidently Bird, some Insect, and a few were
recognized as Tree-frog notes. In the near stream were sounds of
splashing or a little plunge.
"Must be Mushrat," whispered Sam to the unspoken query of his friend.
A loud, far "Oho-oho-oho" was familiar to both as the cry of the
Horned Owl, but a strange long wail rang out from the trees overhead.
"What's that?"
"Don't know," was all they whispered, and both felt very
uncomfortable. The solemnity and mystery of the night was on them
and weighing more heavily with the waning light. The feeling was
oppressive. Neither had courage enough to propose going to the house
or their camping would have ended. Sam arose and stirred the fire,
looked around for more wood, and, seeing none, he grumbled (to
himself) and stepped outside in the darkness to find some. It was not
till long afterward that he admitted having had to _dare_ himself
to step out into the darkness.
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