Like the
hills, these lakes are lying in a deep, still repose, but a repose that
somehow suggests the comprehending calm of those behind the veil. The
whole country seems to rest in a suspense of waiting. A shot breaks the
stillness for an instant, but its very memory is shadowy a moment after
the echoes die. Inevitably the traveller feels thrust in upon himself
by a neutrality more deadly than open hostility would be. Hostility at
least supposes recognition of his existence, a rousing of forces to
oppose him. This ignores. One can no longer wonder at the taciturnity
of the men who dwell here; nor does one fail to grasp the eminent
suitability to the country of its Indian name--the Silent Places.
Even the birds, joyful, lively, commonplace little people that they
are, draw some of this aloofness to themselves. The North is full of
the homelier singers. A dozen species of warblers lisp music-box
phrases, two or three sparrows whistle a cheerful repertoire, the
nuthatches and chickadees toot away in blissful _bourgeoisie_. And
yet, somehow, that very circumstance thrusts the imaginative voyager
outside the companionship of their friendliness. In the face of the
great gods they move with accustomed familiarity. Somehow they possess
in their little experience that which explains the mystery, so that
they no longer stand in its awe. Their everyday lives are spent under
the shadow of the temple whither you dare not bend your footsteps.
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