Peter, and only Peter, sensed the glory of that third afternoon when they paddled slowly ashore close to the shimmering stream of spring water that was called Limping Moose Creek.  The sun was still two hours high in the west.  There was no wind, and Wollaston was like a mirror; yet in the still air was the clean, cool tang of early autumn, and shoreward the world reached out in ridges and billows of tinted forests, with a September haze pulsing softly over them, fleecy as the misty shower of a lady’s powder puff.  It was destined to be a memorable afternoon for Peter, a going down of the sun that he would never forget as long as he lived.

Yet there was no warning of the thing impending, and his eyes saw only the mystery and wonder of the big world, and his ears heard only the drowsing murmur of it, and his nose caught only the sweet scents of cedars and balsams and of flowering and ripening things.  Straight ahead, beyond the white shore line, was a low ridge, and this ridge—­where it was not purple and black with the evergreen—­ was red with the crimson blotches of mountain-ash berries, and patches of fire flowers that glowed like flame in the setting sun.

From out of this paradise, as they drew near to it, came softly the voice and song of birds and the chatter of red squirrels.  A big jay was screeching over it all, and between the first ridge and the second—­which rose still higher beyond it—­a cloud of crows were circling excitedly over a mother black bear and her half grown cubs as they feasted on the red ash berries.  But Peter could not smell the bears, nor hear them, and the distant crows were of less interest than the wonder and mystery of the shore close at hand.

He turned from his place in the bow of the canoe, and looked at his master.  There was little of inspiration in Jolly Roger’s face or eyes.  The glory of the world ahead gave him no promise, as it gave promise to Peter.  Beyond what he could see there lay, for him, a vast emptiness, a chaos of loneliness, an eternity of shattered hopes and broken dreams.  Love of life was gone out of him.  He saw no beauty.  The sun had changed.  The sky was different.  The bigness of his wilderness no longer thrilled him, but oppressed him.

Peter sensed sharply the change in his master without knowing the reason for it.  Just as the world had changed for Jolly Roger, so Jolly Roger had changed for Peter.

They landed on a beach of sand, soft as a velvet carpet.  Peter jumped out.  A long-legged sandpiper and her mate ran down the shore ahead of him.  He perked up his angular ears, and then his nose caught a fresh scent under his feet where a porcupine had left his trail.  And he heard more clearly the raucous tumult of the jay and the musical chattering of the red squirrels.

All these things were satisfactory to Peter.  They were life, and life thrilled him, just as it had thrilled his master a few days ago.  He adventured a little distance up to the edge of the green willows and the young birch and the crimson masses of fire flowers that fringed the beginning of the forest.  It had rained recently here, and the scents were fresh and sweet.