He lay there a long time, staring up
through the leaves and the shifting sunlight, and he was so still that a
hare hopped through the undergrowth almost at his feet, never taking
alarm. To Henry Ware then the world seemed grand and beautiful, and of
all things in it God had made the wilderness the finest, lingering over
every detail with a loving hand.
He watched the setting of the sun and the coming of the twilight. The
sun was a great blazing ball and the western sky flowed away from it in
circling waves of blue and pink and gold, then long shadows came over
the forest, and the distant trees began to melt together into a gigantic
dark wall. To the dweller in cities all this vast loneliness and
desolation would have been dreary and weird beyond description; he would
have shuddered with superstitious awe, starting in fear at the slightest
sound, but there was no such quality in it for Henry Ware. He saw only
comradeship and the friendly veil of the great creeping shadow. His eye
could pierce the thickest night, and fear, either of the darkness or
things physical, was not in him.
He rose after a while, when the last sign of day was gone, and walked
on, though more slowly.
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