“The fire crackles and dances in the darkness of the night. The reflections on Fee Lake of the spruce and white pines are faintly seen with the light of the slivered moon. Across the glassy plane in the forest the whippoorwill calls, taking watch of the wilderness from the white-throated sparrow who keeps eye on this beauty during the day. In the evening, near sunset, the sparrow sings its musical departure, letting all the woods know that it shall take post with the rising of the sun.

   Somewhere in the water I can hear the beaver moving, working to complete his next task, to accrue enough wood for the lodge or cut enough leafy timber to eat for the winter. Every once in a while he will catch wind of my presence and with all his power throw his tail against the water to break the silence and let…