It was humorous. And it was tragic.
At last he came to a shining pool between two tufted ridges, and in this
velvety hollow the twilight was gathering like a shadow in a cup. A
little creek ran out of the pool, and here Alan gathered soft grass and
spread out his blankets. A great stillness drew in about him, broken
only by the old squaws and the loons. At eleven o'clock he could still
see clearly the sleeping water-fowl on the surface of the pool. But the
stars were appearing. It grew duskier, and the rose-tint of the sun
faded into purple gloom as pale night drew near--four hours of rest that
was neither darkness nor day. With a pillow of sedge and grass under his
head he slept.
The song and cry of bird-life wakened him, and at dawn he bathed in the
pool, with dozens of fluffy, new-born ducks dodging away from him among
the grasses and reeds. That day, and the next, and the day after that he
traveled steadily into the heart of the tundra country, swiftly and
almost without rest. It seemed to him, at last, that he must be in that
country where all the bird-life of the world was born, for wherever
there was water, in the pools and little streams and the hollows between
the ridges, the voice of it in the morning was a babel of sound. Out of
the sweet breast of the earth he could feel the irresistible pulse of
motherhood filling him with its strength and its courage, and whispering
to him its everlasting message that because of the glory and need and
faith of life had God created this land of twenty-hour day and four-hour
twilight.
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