Our own bed where we spread our blankets was excellent in one respect,—­there was no danger of tumbling out of it.  At first the rain pattered gently on the leaves overhead, and we congratulated ourselves on the snugness of our situation.  There was something cheerful about this free life.  We contrasted our condition with that of tired invalids who were tossing on downy beds, and wooing sleep in vain.  Nothing was so wholesome and invigorating as this bivouac in the forest.  But, somehow, sleep did not come.  The rain had ceased to patter, and began to fall with a steady determination, a sort of soak, soak, all about us.  In fact, it roared on the rubber blanket, and beat in our faces.  The wind began to stir a little, and there was a moaning on high.  Not contented with dripping, the rain was driven into our faces.  Another suspicious circumstance was noticed.  Little rills of water got established along the sides under the blankets, cold, undeniable streams, that interfered with drowsiness.  Pools of water settled on the bed; and the chaplain had a habit of moving suddenly, and letting a quart or two inside, and down my neck.  It began to be evident that we and our bed were probably the wettest objects in the woods.  The rubber was an excellent catch-all.  There was no trouble about ventilation, but we found that we had established our quarters without any provision for drainage.  There was not exactly a wild tempest abroad; but there was a degree of liveliness in the thrashing limbs and the creaking of the tree-branches which rubbed against each other, and the pouring rain increased in volume and power of penetration.  Sleep was quite out of the question, with so much to distract our attention.  In fine, our misery became so perfect that we both broke out into loud and sarcastic laughter over the absurdity of our situation.  We had subjected ourselves to all this forlornness simply for pleasure.  Whether Old Phelps was still in existence, we couldn’t tell:  we could get no response from him.  With daylight, if he continued ill and could not move, our situation would be little improved.  Our supplies were gone, we lay in a pond, a deluge of water was pouring down on us.  This was summer recreation.  The whole thing was so excessively absurd that we laughed again, louder than ever.  We had plenty of this sort of amusement.  Suddenly through the night we heard a sort of reply that started us bolt upright.  This was a prolonged squawk.  It was like the voice of no beast or bird with which we were familiar.  At first it was distant; but it rapidly approached, tearing through the night and apparently through the tree-tops, like the harsh cry of a web-footed bird with a snarl in it; in fact, as I said, a squawk.  It came close to us, and then turned, and as rapidly as it came fled away through the forest, and we lost the unearthly noise far up the mountain-slope.

“What was that, Phelps?” we cried out.  But no response came; and we wondered if his spirit had been rent away, or if some evil genius had sought it, and then, baffled by his serene and philosophic spirit, had shot off into the void in rage and disappointment.