Chapter V: Part 5

One readily understands in the mountains how the old myths of the gods and giants arose. Why should not the gods have dwelt on Olympus--and here in the Rockies as well? What place more fitting? A setting, stern and heroic, and not altogether hospitable to the puny race of man. There are places of such sublimity and desolation, you feel you have looked in upon Olympus when the gods were away, and that any moment they may return with their thunderbolts. Wandering alone in these regions is like an excursion into legendary lore--and one would better wander alone, for in our deepest moments the mountains are company enough.

One companion you may have--should have, in the mountains--a horse, a kindly and sociable animal, who knows your foibles as you know his, and is willing to humor them. He must be a trail-horse, sure-footed and not finicky about fording mountain streams. If you do not come into some renewed sense of freedom, if the solitude does not speak to you, if you do not become better acquainted with yourself, it is because you really have not surrendered to the genius of the hills but have come preoccupied with other and lesser things. Thoreau did not so greatly exaggerate when he said one must make his will and settle his affairs before he was ready to walk.

One does not tire of sauntering through the mountains. They seem always to invite. Mystery lurks in the ravines. There is no sound but the distant tinkle of a cow-bell, which is pleasant music. Over the ranges and the velvet folds of the _mesa_ the lights and shadows play like a passing smile.

Though the ideal eludes on a nearer view, we nevertheless derive some larger sense of freedom from personal contact with the range. The foot must know the trail; and this association yields that which no road can ever give--a good understanding with the mountain itself. As far as the eye can see, neither fence, nor house, nor road; only the somber forest, the naked ledge. While this tramping over trails hardens the muscles, it toughens also the sinews of the mind. One has mountain thoughts as well as mountain air. The single drop of aboriginal blood tingles in the veins, while the tendency is strong to revert to the wild and to a more rude and savage life. There is experienced some furtive desire, as of a wild animal, to scurry away into these grim ravines, or to leap from crag to crag with the bighorn,--presumably a sort of mountain madness, which is dispelled on the descent to the village.

Who can hear the wild song of the ouzel and not feel an answering thrill? Perched upon a rock in the midst of the rapids, he is the incarnation of all that is untamed, a wild spirit of the mountain stream, as free as a rain-drop or a sunbeam. How solitary he is, a lone little bird, flitting from rock to rock through the desolate gorge, like some spirit in a Stygian world. Yet he sings continually as he takes his solitary way along the stream, and bursts of melody, so eery and sylvan as to fire the imagination, come to the ear, sounding above the roar of the torrent. Like Orpheus, he seeks in the nether world of that wild gorge for his Eurydice, now dashing through the rapids, now peering into some pool, as if to discover her fond image in its depths, and calling ever to lure her thence from that dark retreat up into the world of light and love. This bird, more than all others, embodies the wild. In him the spirit of the mountain finds a voice.

Here we make the acquaintance of the rocks as no where else. One discovers their individuality and comes to feel that even they may be companionable. They have much to say if only one can hear it; but like the aged, their conversation is all of the past. The foibles of their youth are still to be traced in faulting and non-conformity. How tumultuous was that youth; how serene their old age! Stratified or volcanic, each tells its own story. The sandstone cliffs speak of the sea, which preceded them, and of which they are the sediment merely. Upon that shore no human eye ever looked, and yet it is registered here, as the ruins of Mitla record a race unknown to history. The cliff is a chapter in a biography written before the advent of man. Long after the sea had disappeared, some convulsions upheaved the strata and threw them on end. Here and there in the cañons glimpses are to be had of the granite or porphyry which underlies the sandstone--the very corner-stone of the hills. It is as though one had come upon the most ancient papyrus of the world or unearthed the first Babylonian inscription.

It seems incredible the stream should have sawed its way through so many feet of rock and produced the cañon. Day and night it eats its way inward, like a saw cutting to the heart of a forest tree. But see what the rain will do--so gentle a thing as the falling rain. Together they have hewn the cliffs, which are like vast rock tombs with their Egyptian massiveness. A filmy cloud floats down the gorge, trailing along the edge of the precipices, an intangible and shadowy form, spiritlike and ethereal, receiving the rays of the setting sun and becoming golden and then rose-colored, and dissolving away at last into the invisible. This fugitive, shadowy thing, this bit of mist, is the mountain sculptor.

The rocks were the prototype of the temple, as was the forest of the Gothic cathedral, the date-palm of the Byzantine dome. But there worships here only the cañon-wren. He is the high priest who lifts up his voice in these rock temples--a sweet utterance delivered with the usual abandon of the wrens.

Above the cliffs, on the precipitous slopes, is the impress of still another agent. The ledge, smoothed as by a plane, and the scattered boulders amidst the dead timber and small aspens, give it an appearance of extreme desolation. Here, where now the Indian paint-brush glows in summer, the glacier crept snail-like down the mountain, from its cradle in some _cirque_ above the forest. Timber-line is the frontier, the boundary between the verdant world and the land of snow and ice.

It was the glaciers which in the days of their strength chiseled the lake basins every one, and began the great cañons on which the streams have been at work ever since. At the same time they laid out the _moraines_, like so many parks, where the pines and the spruce have planted themselves. They did the rough work and prepared the great rock masses for the finer work of the rain and frost and wind--as the stone-cutter precedes the sculptor.

These lakes in many cases became the glacial meadows of today, which are like jewels set in the vast matrix of rock. Out of elemental changes, terrible in their immensity, came some of the most charming of all wild gardens,--as a rainbow follows a thunder-storm. These serene and altogether beautiful aspects of Nature were the outcome of tumult and passion--earthquakes, avalanches, lava-flows, glaciers, and now these idyllic meadows, beloved of bees and blossoms.

There is a certain cañon hereabout which is closed abruptly at one end by a precipice, over which descends a considerable stream. This fall is a thing of beauty, and so holds the eye that few think of scaling the cliffs to see what may be beyond. But, as it happens, there lies above, and sundered from the world beneath, one of the most delightful little valleys in the Rockies--a long, narrow defile, flanked by perpendicular cliffs of pink and red and buff sandstone.

All day the black-headed grosbeak sings in the aspens, dropping from one reverie into another. You may hear the voice of the green-tailed towhee, and the cañon-wren singing from his rock temple. The stream winds along the floor of the little valley, which is some eight thousand feet above the sea, now through quaking aspens and now under spruce, and its voice is as the murmuring of pines. This is the haunt of the shooting-star and the Alpine mertensia, delicate and exquisite blossoms, wooed by fugitive sunbeams and by the floating mist; which dwell in a subdued and tempered light amidst the Alpine silence, as in some floral cloister. Such are the rare and beautiful places of earth, which the mountain barriers defend and the clouds veil, as if they cherished here the last vestige of the fading youth and innocence of the old world.

There are days when the clouds shut down upon the little valley, veiling it from mortal eyes. The cliffs and buttes seem to float in air; the trail becomes a path to the clouds. You have only to go up on some ridge, and the pinnacles, looming in the fog, appear to be forlorn rocks in mid-ocean. It is the isolation again of the sea and of the desert.

At such times one receives impressions from the mountains which bring to mind the ocean, as if these retained memories--as they still bear traces--of the waters which gave them birth. This relation, once so intimate, is now sundered and only to be inferred. Where is the ancient sea which mothered the Rockies? The desert is its vast bed, now unoccupied. It vanished forever, leaving its impress upon the mountains. And now this sea-child is in its dotage, and it too dwindles and wanes century by century. But the fog still recalls the mother-sea, and out of the forgotten past conjures up little waves to dance upon a primordial beach.

THE FOREST

One who is accustomed only to our eastern woods can have little idea of the true forest as it occurs in the Sierra Nevada, which is a world of itself, as distinct from any idea of the "woods" as the snow peaks, the colossal granite domes and the great cañons of the Sierra are different from the mild topography of the Berkshires.

Here is a forest primeval such as was never known east of the Cascade, not, at least, since that remote period when the sequoia flourished in Greenland. Man wanders, a mere pygmy, in a Brobdingnagian world of vast columnar trunks. This is the true home of the great conifers, the sequoia, silver fir, sugar-pine and Douglas spruce,--the magnificent of the earth. There is no wilderness of saplings as in the woods, and the general openness of the forest is remarkable, so that one has far-reaching vistas through splendid arches and is able to appreciate the size and character of individual trees.

Distinct from all others, the sequoias are a race apart. The big tree and the redwood of the Coast Range are the only surviving members of that ancient family, the giants of the foreworld. Their immense trunks might be the fluted columns of some noble order of architecture, surviving its builders like the marble temples of Greece,--columns three hundred feet high and thirty feet through at the base. Such a vast nave, such majestic aisles, such sublime spires, only the forest cathedrals know. Symmetrical silver firs, giant cedars and spruce grow side by side with sugar-pines of vast and irregular outline, whose huge branches, like outstretched arms, hold aloft the splendid cones--such is the ancient wood.

It is doubtful if these giant conifers are really as companionable as our eastern beeches and maples and oaks. The company is almost too grandiose; their dignity is overpowering. One could never, for instance, form such a pleasant acquaintance with a great sugar-pine as with a slender white birch. Fatherly white oaks and village elms seem to ally themselves with man as protecting deities of the wood. But this great race of trees has little affinity with our world. Be that as it may, there is perhaps no loftier association in Nature than contact with the forest. It is the force of a tremendous personality--calm, inspiring, majestic. Like the sea, it is not to be grasped in its entirety, and the mind responds to it, as some giant sugar-pine to the wind. These sequoias, which may easily be from two to four thousand years old, have seen men come and go as so many squirrels, or as bubbles on the stream; they have outlived empires, and may again.

As the forest inspires in sensitive minds the religious sentiment, so does it impose upon all alike, silence. Self-effacement is the law. Wild animals merge into their environment and have acquired protective coloration through force of necessity. The Indian has come to imitate them; it has become second nature to him to move stealthily, to stand and sit immovable for long at a time, to speak little. To the woodsman, silence is more congenial than speech; his wood life has made him alert; he has the habit of listening, and talk interferes.

Another influence is for sanity. It cannot fail to communicate a little of its imperturbable calm, that stable equilibrium of the granite ledge and the great tree trunks. There being none of the external and artificial excitations which constantly play on the mind in cities, a tremendous force of complex suggestion is removed, and the thought naturally works more simply and directly. The multiplicity of desires lies dormant. Everything conspires for simplicity, as in the city all things are in conspiracy against it.

A certain resourcefulness is the portion of the woodsman, a little of the independence and dexterity of the Indian, but more than this, an intellectual and spiritual resourcefulness. It devolves upon him in the solitude to become acquainted with himself--to be his own friend. A sturdy content grows out of this association with the forest. He does not require to be amused. It does not necessarily promote an unsocial state, but it does make him independent of much society. Thus the forest has its finer or spiritual influence.

Even greater is the suggestion of primitive vigor. The display of vast rude strength induces a robust state of mind quite as readily as the open-air life gives appetite and sleep. With the savage this influence is direct and may almost be classed as instinct. With the refined and cultivated mind it must first pierce the outer shell, the veneer, and filter into the subconscious depths, as the sunlight penetrates the forest twilight and brings to life dormant seeds lying there. A new class of ideas comes to life. The seeds of thought planted long ago in the nomadic period of evolution--in the hunter stage--germinate under the forest influence and send forth shoots. It is memory--the race-memory--coming blindly to the surface, and amounts to a reversion, not so great, however, but it may be wholesome. We speak of men being _animal_ when they are sensual or dissipated, unmindful that animals are neither, but eminently sane, rendering a complete and unconscious obedience to the laws of Nature. Some men make the mistake of trying to take the city to the wilderness, and, as a result, get neither one nor the other. The forest has its luxuries, and they consist, in a measure, of freedom from those things considered luxuries in the city.

Here in the Sierras we live in a wickiup, a sort of a roofless wigwam. The camp overlooks the forest in which the cañons and ranges are as folds and wrinkles. Neighbors are few, for animals conceal themselves, while song-birds are not properly of the forest, but seek the clearing and the settlement. An Oregon snowbird has her nest near by and comes hopping about on her marketing expeditions. A pair of lazuli-finches also live on the edge of the clearing, and the male is, perhaps, the most beautiful bird in the forest. His demure little mate is seldom seen, as she is preoccupied with her domestic cares, but he constantly flits about in the chaparral, where he gleams in the sunlight like a jewel.

One other neighbor we have, an Audubon hermit-thrush, which might be a voice merely--like Echo haunting the mountain--and no bird at all. He appears to sing in the twilight only, and his song, like that of all thrushes, is spiritual and unworldly. A single white lily, tall and branching, stands near the camp, and day after day opens its ghostly racemes in the dusk to white moths which come flitting out of the forest like winged Psyches; and with the opening of the spirit-like flower comes the vesper song of the thrush.

Night in the forest is a spell, an enchantment. It descends suddenly and envelopes us in darkness, tangible and real. The wickiup stands at the edge of a little clearing, and, as we roll ourselves in our blankets, we seem to float in inky blackness, while the pines are like beetling cliffs against the starlit heavens. Darkness and light confront each other; it is as if we hovered between them and had made our camp for the night on the borderland. But with the dawn, that luminous world has vanished and we are again under the familiar pines.

One is impressed most by the wonderful stillness of the night. Not only is the world blotted out in the enveloping darkness, but it is voiceless, and there prevails absolute silence. Rarely this is broken by the yapping of coyotes, or a dry twig snaps sharply under the foot of some animal.

Not until the wind rises does the forest recover its voice. During the day there is always music; it is as constant as noise in the city. Impalpable currents descend from the empyrean to caress only the tops of the tallest pines, coming no nearer to earth than this, and while all is silent below there arises a distant chant in the tree tops, which have been touched by an invisible hand and made to respond to moods of the sky. Full and resonant, yet with that muffled quality of tone which makes it appear always to come from a distance, the rhythmic force of this chant sways one like the vibrations of an orchestra. Starting at some center, as if at a signal, these tremulous waves of sound recede farther and farther into the forest and die away in a sigh.

Here the tendency grows on one to wander in the early morning and again in late afternoon, to become crepuscular, like the animals, and to stay in camp in the middle of the day. Deer do not stir abroad in the heat, nor do fish bite, nor birds sing. This love of dawn and twilight is partly inspired by fear of man, but it is none the less natural. At daybreak the deer go down the cañons to the salt-licks, as surreptitiously as nymphs going to bathe. It is their witching hour, as midnight is the owls'.

To arise at dawn should be an occasion; to make it usual would mean the sacrifice of the more subtle impressions, the mind is so readily blunted by the habitual.

Like a black mantle the great forest lies over the earth as I roll myself in my blankets beside the fire. That little flaring light appears to be the only one in this dark wilderness, reclaiming a minute portion of space and making it habitable. Wherever one may be in the forest, it is only necessary to gather a few dry sticks and strike a match. The signal summons the genii, servant of the woodsman. More properly one should use a flint, or rub two sticks together. He allies himself with man against the hosts of darkness and defies the wilderness; a merry fellow, his laugh may be heard in the crackling flames. All through the night he entertains with his merry gossip and with pictures he shows in the fire. At times he reveals his own glowing face in the embers, but quickly assumes the head of a bear or a lynx, or melts away in the flames, to reappear presently in another spot.

When I awake, the morning-star hangs low in the heavens like a great lamp, its light an infinitely pure and serene radiance with no suggestion of heat or combustion, made to appeal to some higher vision. A heap of cold gray ashes is all that is left of the fire, in the center a single glowing spot, which may have been the eye of the genii of the night. The black mantle has been lifted, and the earth is illumined by a faint glow, as if solely by the reflected rays of that planet. Unspeakably soft is this light, the forerunner of the dawn, in which the forest is bathed and from which one derives a peculiar satisfaction.

Imperceptibly, almost, it fades, and is replaced by one of a different quality--the light of day--which creeps over the world until at length one is aware that that other, which was neither of the night nor of the day, has gone. Long pale lines of fog and fleecy banks of clouds now evolve upon the horizon. The earth remains suffused in this cold light, which fascinates and still repels, making the ranges look distant and severe, and giving to the whole face of Nature an unsympathetic look. It is the beauty of marble, a Gorgon beauty, which chills the heart. In that scene is no note of human passion. Those pale clouds, cold and gray as the ashes of the fire, seem to lure to some beyond, as if they would draw one from the world of life and warmth to some region of cold and death.

Presently comes a faint blush in the sky and over the hills, a new warmth of light, as if blood now ran in those marble veins. It is the _foreglow_, which is to the sunrise what the afterglow is to the sunset. Color is again born into the world, and the earth is once more alive and sympathetic. As the sun rises, dawn, the exquisite dawn, the most ethereal thing that mortal eyes shall ever behold, flees away into the uttermost parts of space. The mystical, alluring quality slowly dies, and it is once more the matter-of-fact light of day.

With the appearance of the sun these subtle impressions vanish, like a dream vague and unreal. Nature reasserts herself in the robust sense of existence; now the smell of frying bacon, the comforting effect of the morning coffee in a tin cup, are the real and important things. Physical life is enough in itself--so concentrated, vigorous, aggressive it is. The mere breathing, seeing, tasting are more in themselves than is possible under other conditions. How good the resiny odor of the forest! How exhilarating the scene in its pure savagery! How stimulating the morning air! How the stream lures as I get down the trout-rod, and climbing out on a sugar-pine log cast a brown hackle on the swirling glassy flood!

THE SEA

The sea ever baffles description. It is a living thing, pulsating with energy, and, possessed of a subtle consciousness, elusive and full of moods--changeable as woman and as incomprehensible. Now it is tender and appealing; again distant and cold. Perhaps it is because of its essentially feminine traits that it so beguiles. Certainly it fascinates as nothing else fascinates in Nature.

There is what may be called a _sense_ of the sea, which is indefinable. No lesser body of water, no other aspect of Nature affords this. It is in the air, like a touch of autumn, and we know it as much through feeling as through seeing. The coast is saturated for some distance inland with this presence of the sea, much as the beach is soaked with salt water. It is music and poetry to the soul and as elusive as they, wrapping us in dreams and yielding fugitive glimpses of that which we may never grasp, but which skirts, like a beautiful phantom, the mind's horizon. Like music, it is an opiate, and unlocks for us new states of mind in which we wander, as in halls of alabaster and mother-of-pearl, but where, alas, we may not linger. We can as readily sound the ocean as fathom the feelings it inspires. It is too deep for thought. As often as the sea speaks to us of the birth of Venus and of Joy, so also does it remind of Prometheus bound and the thrall of Nature.

Who can recall those impressions of the sea which were his as a child--a relish, a vividness, perhaps never experienced in after life? What wonderful thing was the pure white sand; what fascinating objects the sea-shells--and the boom of the surf, what thrilling music! No longer is it that simple strain, but inwrought with hopes and fears and memories. The children on the beach play in an ocean of their own; we cannot put foot on their shore, try as we will. Sometimes, as the salty fragrance is wafted over the sands, one is on the point of regaining that lost consciousness, and then it eludes and is gone. Never again shall we find that alluring and altogether wonderful sea upon which we happened in childhood. Yet who knows but in some auspicious moment we may come upon one still more entrancing.

With an east wind the sea is always musical. It breaks forth in its solemn chant, as though the wind were an influence that awakened memories of the immeasurable past, and inspired this primitive song. From a distance it comes like a rhythmical murmur upon the horizon, and it is strange how this sound will fall upon unheeding ears, and then with what suddenness one becomes aware of it. At times it loses its rhythmical character and becomes a sort of recitative. One imagines the venerable sea to be muttering of its epic past--to be relating that wonderful saga.

Yesterday the sea was glass. It lay tranquil as if never again could its surface be ruffled. So indefinite was the sky-line it was difficult to tell which was sky and which water,--a dream-ocean, a charming vision, which was to dissolve like a mirage of the desert.

This morning how it was changed! Up from the shore came a muffled and ominous growl. As one approached, this ceased, and there was instead the spitting and hissing of little waves--a sound of irritation and suppressed anger. The sea was leaden, aggressive, formidable. It was as if some troubled spirit had entered there--it was possessed of a devil. This unrest is savage and terrible like that of a caged tiger. The eye turns with relief to the imperturbable rock, which seems to confine and restrain the angry waters. The granite rests in unalterable calm, sphinxlike, on the edge of the watery desert. It stands for the constant and enduring, as it forever confronts the inconstant and changeful sea. They are two opposing forces: the sea coy, arch, coquettish, now bewitching and full of her beautiful wiles, now disdainful and imperious, again mad, tempestuous, hurling herself in her wild passion; the granite grim, massive, unconquerable.

Late in the afternoon the wind is blowing from the north, the sky has cleared and the sea is sapphire, dotted with whitecaps; yesterday, opal, this morning leaden, and later, sapphire. It is no longer formidable, rather is it cold and distant. The _face_ of the waters is a peculiarly pertinent figure of speech, for the sea is as a face reflecting all moods. In the glare of noonday, ocean and landscape seem to discharge themselves of feeling,--that is to say, they are barren to the eye and unproductive of feeling in us. But in the atmosphere of sunset and twilight they are again expressive. The quality of light may be compared to the _timbre_ of sound. Sometimes--as at noon--it is like the blare of brass, and, again, it has the softness of wood-winds, the tenderness of violins and cellos.

The receding day carries with it the disquieting influences, and night exorcises the demons of unrest. They scurry away with the sunset clouds on the horizon like fleeing witches. As if in obedience to some silent command, the sea becomes passive. He must be distraught indeed who can look at it now without coming under the spell of the hour--the serene hour. It is as if the passion and strife of life had been succeeded by the beautiful calm of death. To gaze on the mute and motionless ocean at ebb-tide is to be inevitably inspired to reflection, so potent is the suggestion of repose. Apparently the forces of Nature have conspired together for peace.

Death? Nay, rather transfiguration, for now the sea is illumined by a golden radiance. Stretches of burnished copper and molten gold merge one into the other; areas again of liquid silver, and beyond, the vast ethereal blue. Out of the coves shadows come creeping and stealing over the water, silently advancing to overwhelm the rose and copper and gold, while these recede and slip out to sea, growing fainter and fainter until they are absorbed in the all-pervading dusk. In the succeeding darkness one beholds, not the sea, but a vast bottomless pit, Dantesque and terrible.

Above all else it is the immense vigor of the sea which appeals to us. We are made to feel the play of cosmic forces. The long stretch of rocky coast is rude and Titanic; the expanse of ocean suggests that chaos from which the earth has gradually been redeemed. The waters piling themselves up are as elemental and chaotic as nebulæ or the seething envelopes of the sun. It is incredible they should be hitched to the gentle moon, and should follow that pale phantom like a leashed panther, now purring, now growling, but obedient always. The mountains impress one with their age, the sea with its agelessness. Here at least is something which appears superior to Time. It is no more youth than it is age--the formless, without beginning and without end, but always that superabundant vigor, power, freedom.

Denuded woodland and disfigured landscape bring to mind that iron Necessity which it is not pleasant to see advertised. But the sea is unimproved. It is the universal solvent, and dissolves the trivial, the commonplace, the mean, and gives an heroic cast to whatever it touches. One needs, however, to observe it from the shore and to have that vantage which is derived from being on land. In mid-ocean it is too entirely dominant--there is nothing to afford contrast. It is like the moon--so fair at a distance, such desolation upon its surface. One can be alone on the mountains and find them friendly, but who would choose to be alone in mid-ocean? There is a sense of isolation, a disassociation, as if one had, in fact, severed connection with earthly affairs altogether; hour after hour and day after day the same inscrutable desert of water, which begins everywhere and ends nowhere.

Yet how inviting it appears when the glittering sunbeams dance on a gently rippling surface. It seems an expression of irrepressible gaiety as if all the joyousness in Nature had come to the surface here. The twinkling dance of the innocent waves--who can recall the tragedies now?

The gulls appear to enjoy some favoritism, as though they were kin to the sea--its very own. To them it is altogether friendly; they find it always congenial. Whether the breeze blows north or south, it is all the same. In the last gale it was next to impossible to keep one's feet in the full force of the wind, but the gulls sustained themselves with ease. Over the gray-green sea the clouds appeared to rest like a cowl. The thunder of the waves drowned all else and shut one off from the world; consciousness was swallowed up in the din and tumult. In vast mountainous billows the swirling waters rushed for the shore and dissolved in spray. I stood in the lee of the rocks, bracing myself against the gale--a reed shaken by the wind--and saw flocks of coots riding at ease in the maelstrom beyond. Always facing the wind, they sank into the troughs and rose again, were lost to view as the crests broke over them, and reappeared in the old position. Ships would have dragged their anchors where these coots rode at ease, anchored by heaven knows what power.

Where the surf broke with its terrible thunder, countless crabs, urchins, starfish and whelk reposed in the rockweed and Irish moss. Were they aware of the storm? Did the anemones shut their doors or open them wider in view of a feast?

The marvelous pools in which they live have no resemblance to the surface of the sea, but suggest the bottom of the deep--limpid, dark and still. Each is a world by itself, inhabited by a strange order of beings: dull nomads, which drift with the waves, or cling, they know not how, to something, they know not what. If there is any event in their life it is the rise of the tide. In all likelihood they do not know our day and night, are not impressed by these phenomena; but the flood is their day, the ebb their night. Small whelk stud the rich background of sea-mosses like precious stones, some gamboge, some orange, others white as marble or banded with black. There are colonies of sertularia tinted a delicate mauve, solitary sea-urchins of heliotrope, and starfish, some luminous pink, others deep rose-madder. These hues are characteristic of sea life, as of lichens and mushrooms and the lower orders in general; not crude colors, red and blue, but delicate gradations. Now and again a single jellyfish, stranded by the receding tide, a spectral diaphanous creature, hovers ghostlike in the liquid atmosphere of his strange world. It is all of an antediluvian and prehistoric character, associated with the beginning of things--with an age of fishes rather than an age of man. The deathless sea takes no note of the flight of time; it still brings forth only brood upon brood of slimy, goggle-eyed things.

What a harvest, this of the sea! After a storm all craft put out. The lobstermen in their dories take in the lobster-pots and replenish the bait, while the dory rises and sinks on the long swells. Fleets of mackerel boats and schooners bound for the Banks after cod and haddock creep along the horizon-line. On the beach men rake up the Irish moss, flung ashore in the storm, and spread it on old sails to bleach in the sun. Others haul kelp for the fields, while women gather driftwood. So great a resource is the ocean; so many gleaners there are.

The sea is humanized and redeemed somewhat by the presence of these workers. It is agreeable to reflect that while it nourishes them, they in turn do not mar it. Man communicates the character of his mind and aims to the landscape; enriches it by his labor on the farm, and disfigures it again in a thousand ways, till it is as barren and sordid as his own thoughts. But upon the deep he makes no impression. It is virgin ever. It overpowers him by its stern music--lifts him for a time a little above the sordid and commonplace. The sailor ashore is not the same man he is out there. He must needs have courage, for he must meet the sea. Portuguese, Swedes, Finns--poor stuff for poems in their sailor boarding-houses ashore. But hear how they face the winter gales. Learn the actual experience which makes up that life. The sea invests the poorest, meanest man with heroic qualities. That is his stage; there he looms large. Oil-skins and sou'wester are but his make-up.

I take home a piece of driftwood, for no ordinary fire, but to kindle the imagination, for it is saturated with memories and carries with it the enchantment of the sea. To light this is to set in motion a sort of magic-play. True _driftwood_ has been seasoned by the waters and mellowed by the years. Not any piece of a lobster-pot, or pleasure yacht, or, for that matter, of any modern craft at all is driftwood. It must have come from the timber of a vessel built in the olden time when copper bolts were used, so that the wood is impregnated with copper salts. That is merely the chemistry of it. The wood is saturated with sunshine and moonlight as well, with the storms and calms of the sea--its passions, its subtle moods; more than this, it absorbed of the human life whose destiny was involved with the vessel--the tragedy, the woe. It had two lives--a forest life and a sea life. By force of tragedy alone it became driftwood. Winter and summer the sea sang its brave songs over the boat and chanted her requiem at last as she lay on the ledge. This fragment drifted ashore out of the wreck of a vessel, out of the wreck of great hopes, out of the passion of the sea.

Driftwood, then, is to be lighted in a spirit of reverence. No ordinary blaze, rather is it an altar fire to Poseidon, to whom were immolated the victims; to Aphrodite born of the waves. Rather is it the funeral pyre of a sea-bird, now to rise again from its ashes. It is not to warm the hands, this magic sea-fire, which has borrowed the emerald and sapphire and azure of the waters and reflects still the phosphorescent gleam which lay in the wake of the vessel, but to kindle some feeling and to nurture vague dreams. To set match to this pyre is to invoke the spirit of the deep, to hear the crooning of some distant surf, the hissing of the fretful spray; to conjure up again the wondrous opaline sea.

Somewhere on this phantom ocean rides a phantom bark with all sails set, which reflect, now a rose-pink, now the faintest imaginable golden sheen, and disappear in the dusk. Perchance there flits over the mind a haunting recollection of that lost sea of childhood--that sea of virgin impressions--to vanish also into the dusk of oblivion.

INDEX

Abdomen, 86, 95, 105.

Acorns, 120, 142, 160, 161.

Acquired tendency, 97.

Adder's-tongue, 20, 61, 67.

Æolus, 64.

Afterglow, 194.

Age, 201.

Agelessness, 201.

Age of fishes, 204.

Air-sac, 18, 19, 77.

Alaska sable, 150.

Alders, 14, 20, 50, 120, 162, 164, 168.

Alpine woodsia, 67, 170.

Alps, 154.

Altar fire, 207.

Amanita, 115, 126.

Amazon, 25.

Aments, 14.

Andromeda, 168.

Anemones, 1, 13, 20, 21, 59, 61, 67, 203.

Animals, 136-138, 142, 146, 187, 189, 191, 192.

Antennæ, 52, 101, 103.

Anthers, 78.

Ant hill, 94, 108.

Ants, 4, 88, 91, 94-107, 109, 111, 112, 145.

Aphid, 100, 101, 112.

Aphrodite, 207.

Apis, 78.

Apple, wild, 148.

April, 142, 169.

Arachne, 78.

Arbutus, 20, 60, 121.

Arctic, 131.

Arctic Circle, 23.

Armies, 102, 107, 111.

Ash, 66, 124.

Aspen, 7, 123.

Aspens, 181, 182.

Asters, 71, 122.

August, 113, 114, 117, 134.

Autumn, 20, 45, 51, 72, 92, 118, 119, 122, 125, 134, 135, 144, 152, 157, 166, 196.

Audubon hermit-thrush, 190.

Avalanches, 182.

Balsam, 3, 6, 57, 66, 68.

Bamboos, 117.

Banks, the, 205.

Barberry, 3, 58, 124.

Bare branches, 126.

Bark, 157, 158.

Barn-swallows, 26.

Basalt, 59.

Battle, 102.

Battlefield, 103.

Bayberry, 3, 118, 127.

Beach, 76, 132, 183, 196, 197, 205.

Bear, 193.

Beech, 126, 156, 157, 186.

Beechnuts, 145, 160.

Bees, 30, 31, 51, 55-57, 60, 67, 78-80, 82, 83, 89, 182.

Beetles, 34, 35, 150.

Bee-tree, 67.

Beggar-ticks, 121.

Bellworts, 21, 62.

Bent grass, 57.

Berkshires, 185.

Berries, 113, 114, 126, 161.

Bighorn, 178.

Big tree, 186.

Billows, 203.

Bindweed, 69.

Birch, 12, 32, 33, 57, 90, 117, 120, 123, 157, 158, 186.

Black alders, 168.

Black-and-white creepers, 39, 40.

Black ant, 91, 96, 102, 104-110.

Blackberries, 2, 63, 75, 118, 123, 148.

Black birch, 117, 158.

Blackcap raspberries, 146.

Black cherry, 158.

Black colonies, 4.

Black-headed grosbeak, 182.

Black oak, 157.

Blacksnakes, 155.

Black-throated blue warbler, 66.

Black-throated green warblers, 40.

Bloodroot, 20, 21, 60.

Blueberry, 11, 12, 64, 113, 159.

Bluebird, 1, 13, 14, 34, 41, 114, 117.

Blue-headed vireo, 8.

Bluets, 20, 57.

Blue violets, 20.

Boat, 207.

Bobolink, 24, 43.

Bob-white, 24, 42, 70, 160-162.

Bog, 56, 57, 122, 165, 168.

Bog-rush, 57.

Bokhara, 126.

Boleti, 116.

Bombus, 78.

Boulders, 6, 57, 91, 94, 122, 127-135, 140, 181.

Bouncing-bet, 56.

Brakes, 122.

Brazil, 24.

Briers, 147, 148.

Brook, 61, 138, 168-171.

Broom-moss, 117.

Brown ants, 109, 111, 112.

Brown hackle, 195.

Brush, 90.

Bryum, 117.

Buckwheat, 145.

Bulldogs, 102.

Bullfrogs, 114.

Bumblebee, 67, 78, 80.

Bunchberry, 67.

Bunchberries, 113.

Burdock, 59, 63, 73.

Bur-reeds, 152.

Burrow, 16, 155.

Burs, 121.

Buttercup, 57.

Buttercup seed, 145.

Butterflies, 55, 93.

Butterfly-weed, 72.

Butternut, 3, 66, 121.

Buttes, 183.

Button-bushes, 164, 165.

Byroads, 71, 73.

Caches, 125.

Calms, 207.

Camp, 189-192.

Canada, 66, 130.

Canada thistle, 75.

Canada violet, 62.

Cañons, 180-182, 185, 189, 192.

Cañon-wren, 180, 182.

Capsules, 119.

Captivity, 112.

Cardinal, 47.

Carolina wren, 47.

Carpenter-bees, 30.

Carrot, 63, 66, 74.

Cascade, 185.

Cassandra, 168.

Cat, 27.

Catbird, 30, 44-46, 49.

Catbrier, 118, 148.

Caterpillars, 92, 93.

Catkins, 13.

Cattails, 38, 150, 152.

Cedar, 34.

Cedars, 186.

Cells, 82, 83.

Cetraria, 159.

Ceylon, 117.

Chalcid fly, 82, 83, 92.

Chant, 46, 47, 169, 191, 198.

Chaos, 201.

Chaparral, 190.

Checkerberry, 80.

Cherry, 2, 3, 64, 66, 113, 158.

Chestnut-bur, 121.

Chestnuts, 121, 145.

Chestnut warbler, 26, 39.

Chewink, 41.

Chickadee, 41, 47, 158, 159, 166.

Chickory, 74.

Chipmunk, 15, 136, 139, 140, 144, 145, 155.

Chipping-sparrow, 37, 38, 118.

Chirping, 53.

Christmas fern, 158.

Christmas green, 158.

Cicada, 50, 53.

Cinnamon fern, 122.

Cinquefoil, 57.

Cirque, 181.

City, 189.

Cladonia, 126, 159.

Claw, 86.

Clearing, 190.

Clethra, 80, 148, 168.

Cliff, 66, 67, 132, 169, 174, 179-183.

Cliff-brake, 170.

Clintonia, 1, 57, 113, 114.

Cloud, 173, 174, 180, 183, 194, 200.

Clover, 57, 71.

Club-mosses, 158.

Coast Range, 186.

Cocoa-bean, 72.

Cocoons, 93, 95, 96.

Cod, 205.

Colony, 94, 95, 97, 99, 102, 107-111.

Columbines, 21, 66, 67, 121.

Column, 104-106, 110, 111.

Combat, 103.

Companionship, 10, 173.

Competition, 69.

Cones, 125, 158, 162, 163, 186.

Conifers, 158, 185, 186.

Coniferous, 141.

Connecticut Valley, 21.

Constellations, 130.

Coon, 149.

Coots, 124, 203.

Copper salts, 206.

Co-operation, 98.

Corridors, 95.

Cotton-fields, 47.

Cottontail, 126.

Court of the Winds, 163.

Coves, 200.

Cow-bell, 177.

Cowbird, 36-38.

Coyotes, 191.

Crabs, 203.

Cranberry-bog, 57.

Crane's-bill, 65.

Creek, 169.

Creepers, 39, 159.

Crest, 203.

Crickets, 51, 52, 54, 72.

Crop, 128.

Crossbills, 24, 162, 163.

Crow, 16, 17.

Crystals, 133.

Cuckoo, 31.

Curlew, 23.

Cyperus, 114.

Daghestan, 126.

Daisies, 59, 66.

Dandelions, 70, 71, 131, 135.

Dawn, 45, 47, 191-194.

Daybreak, 192.

Death-song, 55.

Deep, 204, 205, 207.

Deer, 138, 156, 192.

Dell, 80.

Desert, 131, 183, 198, 199.

Deserters, 107.

Devonian, 5.

Dexterity, 188.

Dicentra, 20, 59, 170.

Dicksonia, 59, 122.

Dodder, 69.

Dog, 136.

Dog-days, 87, 114, 122.

Dogwood, 30, 58, 157.

Dory, 205.

Douglas spruce, 185.

Doves, 7.

Downy woodpecker, 159.

Downy yellow violets, 21.

Driftwood, 205-207.

Dromedary, 132.

Drumming, 16.

Dwarf-sumac, 80, 124.

Earthquake, 182.

Earth-spirit, 130.

East wind, 198.

Ebb-tide, 200, 204.

Echo, 190.

Edible, 115.

Eggs, 81, 82, 84, 85, 91, 93, 99, 105, 110, 112, 121, 132, 160.

Egypt, 131.

Elder, 63.

Elm, 20, 30, 163, 186.

Elysian fields, 71.

English pheasant, 42.

Epithalamium, 54.

Erigone, 88.

Erythronium, 1, 20.

Europe, 70.

Eurydice, 179.

Evolution, 97.

Exodus, 101, 109, 110.

_Face_ of the waters, 199.

Fall, 151.

Fall dandelions, 71.

False hellebore, 68.

Farm, 128.

Faulting, 179.

Faun, 49, 126, 159.

February, 140.

Feeding-grounds, 152.

Feldspar, 134.

Fern, 57, 131, 158.

Fern moss, 68, 117.

Fields, 22, 42, 43, 48, 57, 59, 71, 72, 74, 76, 79, 115, 127-129, 205.

Field-sparrow, 1, 43, 118.

Filaments, 78.

Finch, 18, 190.

Fir, 185, 186.

Fire, 192-194.

Fireweed, 75.

Fish, 77, 192.

Fisherman, 171.

Flight, 88, 98-100, 120.

Flood, 204.

Florida, 25.

Fly, 78, 86.

Flycatcher, 37, 119.

Fog, 173, 183, 184, 194.

Forest, 34, 42, 44, 56, 62, 65, 78, 82, 100, 117, 136, 163, 178, 181, 185, 187-193, 195.

Forest cathedrals, 186.

Food plant, 112.

Foreglow, 194.

_Formica pennsylvanica_, 102.

Formicary, 97, 99.

Fox, 148, 149, 156.

Fox-sparrows, 16.

Freedom, 112, 177, 201.

Frogs, 18, 19, 51, 114, 144, 155.

Fossils, 131.

Fronds, 159.

Frost, 129, 135, 181.

Frost-grapes, 2, 113.

Fruit, 65, 72, 76.

Fungus, 114, 147.

Funeral pyre, 207.

Gale, 203.

Galleries, 95, 96.

Garden, 56, 58, 59, 65, 67, 69, 70, 169, 170.

Garden escapes, 56.

Gentians, 114.

Glacial times, 130.

Glacier, 129, 131, 133, 135, 181, 182.

Gleaners, 205.

Glen, 138-140, 143, 150, 151, 169, 170.

Gneiss, 169.

Goldenrod, 71, 78, 80, 122.

Goldfinch, 162.

Gold thread, 26, 63.

Gorge, 80, 178, 180.

Granite, 6, 59, 60, 130, 132, 134, 135, 159, 175, 180, 187, 199.

Granite domes, 185.

Grape, 52, 126.

Grass, 57, 64, 65, 70, 71, 76, 87, 108, 131, 139.

Grasshoppers, 54, 145, 155.

Grass roots, 152.

Grass seed, 145.

Gray squirrels, 120, 139, 140-142.

Greece, 186.

Greenland, 129, 185.

Green-tailed towhee, 182.

Grosbeak, 47, 182.

Groundnut, 21, 169.

Ground-pine, 158.

Grouse, 24, 156.

Grove, 17.

Grubs, 92, 121.

Gulls, 202, 203.

Hackle, 195.

Haddock, 205.

Hair-cap moss, 12, 57, 117, 119.

Hardwoods, 30.

Hawk, 34, 42, 161.

Hawkweed, 28.

Hay-scented fern, 131.

Hegira, 89.

Hemlocks, 56, 81, 126, 140.

Hepatica, 20, 60, 129.

Hermit-thrush, 8, 16, 43, 44, 190.

Hickory, 7, 121, 123, 124, 128.

Highhole, 15, 16.

Highroads, 73.

Highways, 56, 100.

Hillocks, 59.

Hills, 94, 109, 167, 173, 177, 180, 194.

Himalaya, 117.

Hive, 80.

Home-trees, 30.

Honey bees, 67, 79, 80.

Hop-hornbeam, 119, 157.

Horse, 131, 177.

Horsetails, 12.

Host, 93.

Houseleek, 77.

House-sparrow, 31.

House-wren, 30.

Hound, 143.

Huber, 112.

Huckleberries, 26, 99, 123, 145.

Humming-bird, 28, 29, 67.

Humus, 125.

Hunter stage, 189.

Hunters, 102.

Hunting expedition, 110.

Hunting-ground, 111.

Huts, muskrat, 150-152.

Hyla, 18-20, 51.

Ice, 129, 130, 151, 152, 155, 162, 167, 168, 181.

Ichneumons, 93.

Icicles, 135, 167.

Immigrants, 70.

Independence, 188.

Indian, 187, 188.

Indian paint-brush, 181.

Indian-pipe, 80, 81.

Indian summer, 88, 126.

Instinct, 188.

Invasion, 104.

Irish moss, 203, 205.

Iron weed, 73.

Jack-in-the-pulpit, 62.

Java, 117.

Jaws, 86, 91, 103, 142.

Jay, 45, 120, 160, 161.

Jellyfish, 204.

Jimson-weed, 73.

Joepye-weed, 73, 122.

Juncos, 162.

June, 161.

Jungle, 117, 130, 131, 168.

Juniper, 127.

Kelp, 205.

Kidnapping, 107.

Kingfisher, 32.

Kinglet, 1, 5, 48, 49, 159, 170.

Laborers, 108.

Lady's-slipper, 1.

Lake, 75, 181.

Lake basins, 181.

Lance-leaved violets, 21.

Larvæ, 82, 83, 105, 106, 110, 121.

Laurel, 59.

Lava, 59.

Lava-flow, 182.

Lazuli-finch, 190.

Leaf bud, 160.

Least flycatcher, 37.

Ledge, 5, 6, 31, 33, 80, 129, 132, 134, 159, 164, 178, 181, 187, 207.

Leopard-frog, 19.

Lichens, 6, 26, 57, 117, 127, 133, 134, 159, 204.

Lily, 61, 190.

Lily-pads, 114, 166, 168.

Limestone, 59.

Lobstermen, 205.

Lobster-pots, 205, 206.

Locusts, 51, 52.

Long-spurred violets, 20.

Loon, 48.

Love-song, 18, 44, 45, 50.

Lubbock, 112.

Lumbermen, 163.

Luster, 158.

Lynx, 193.

Mackerel boats, 205.

Magnolia warbler, 66.

Mallow, 122.

Mandrake, 1.

Mango, 72.

Maple, 19, 20, 26, 45, 59, 66, 101, 117, 120, 124-126, 134, 135, 157, 186.

Maple-leaved viburnum, 124.

Marble, 134.

Marriage flight, 98.

Marshes, 122.

Marsh-marigold, 20.

Martin, 22.

Maryland yellow-throat, 37.

Massachusetts, 21.

Mastodon, 121.

Meadow-ants, 102.

Meadow-lark, 1.

Meadow-mouse, 150.

Meadows, 43, 56, 67, 168, 182.

Meadow sweet, 80.

Medeola, 62.

Mertensia, 183.

_Mesa_, 177.

Mica, 134.

Mice, 139.

Milking, 101.

Milkweeds, 72.

Mink, 139, 140, 142, 149, 151.

Minstrelsy, 48.

Mint, 1.

Mirage, 198.

Mist, 75, 76, 170, 180, 183.

Mitchella, 126.

Miterworts, 21, 32.

Mitla, 179.

Mixed flocks, 8.

Mniums, 117.

Mocking-bird, 49.

Mole, 150.

Mollusks, 23.

Monkey, 121.

Moon, 129, 201, 202.

Moosewood, 157.

Moraine, 59, 130, 181.

Morning-star, 193.

Mosses, 12, 57, 68, 82, 116, 117, 134.

Mother ants, 98.

Moths, 93, 190.

Mountain-ash, 66.

Mountain-goat, 100.

Mountain-holly, 113.

Mountain-maple, 66.

Mountains, 56-58, 65, 66, 68, 119, 164, 173-177, 179, 181, 183, 184, 190, 201, 202.

Mountain stream, 169, 177, 178.

Mountain thoughts, 178.

Mouse, 35, 119.

Mud-dauber, 84.

Mullein, 63, 74.

Mushrooms, 114-116, 204.

Muskrats, 150-152.

Myrtle warbler, 66.

Natural history, 97.

Nebulæ, 201.

Negroes, 104, 105, 107, 111.

Nest, 26-29, 31-34, 36-38, 41, 45, 66, 84, 95, 96, 102, 104-111, 190.

New England, 6, 11, 127, 130, 169.

New Jersey, 21.

New York, 130.

Night, 190, 200.

Non-conformity, 179.

North, 127.

November, 152.

Nuthatch, 40, 159.

Nuts, 142.

Nymph, 126, 157, 159, 192.

Oaks, 5, 7, 8, 58, 89, 120, 126, 154, 157, 159, 186.

Ocean, 183, 197, 199-201, 205, 207.

October, 114, 123, 166.

Oil-skins, 206.

Olympus, 176.

Opal, 199.

Open, the, 153, 166.

Orache, 77.

Orchards, 30, 34, 71.

Orchis, 168.

Oregon snowbird, 190.

Orinoco, 25.

Oriole, 5, 25, 30, 117.

Ornithologist, 118.

Orphean strain, 119.

Orpheus, 178.

Osmunda, 13, 123, 124.

Outlaws, 148.

Ouzel, 178.

Owl, 27, 31, 34, 35, 148, 192.

Paint-brush, 181.

Painted trillium, 62.

Paleozoic reptiles, 131.

Panther, 201.

Pappus, 38, 75.

Papyrus, 180.

Parasite, 157.

Parmelia, 57, 133, 159.

Parnassus, 119.

Partridgeberries, 160.

Parula warbler, 8.

Pastoral stage, 102.

Pasture, 15, 22, 25, 56-58, 64, 72-74, 76, 88, 113, 127, 128, 135, 155.

Pasture mushroom, 115.

Pasture stones, 57, 94, 118, 127, 128, 131, 132, 134.

Patagonia, 23.

Peak, 174, 185.

Peat-moss, 117.

Pebbles, 132.

Pedata violets, 60.

Persia, 154.

Personality, 43.

Petal, 130, 167.

Pewees, 26, 46, 50, 118, 119.

Pheasant, 42.

Phoebe, 18, 31, 56, 119.

Pickerel-frogs, 114.

Pickerel-weed, 74.

Pignut, 142.

Pigweed, 69.

Pileus, 114.

Pine, 5, 7, 9, 17, 28, 30, 40, 65, 78, 123, 125, 142, 154, 158, 162-164, 166, 168, 181, 183, 185-187, 191.

Pine-needles, 7, 126, 147, 153.

Pine-siskins, 162.

Pine-warbler, 40.

Pinnæ, 159.

Pipes of Pan, 48.

Piping, 18.

Pipsissewa, 80.

Pistillate, 79.

Pitcher-plant, 13.

Pitch-pine, 28, 166.

Planets, 132.

Plantain, 64.

Plant-fiber, 26.

Planting, 65.

Plant life, 69.

Plover, 22, 24.

Pod, 72, 73, 75.

Poison-ivy, 123, 124.

Poison sumac, 68.

Pokeweed, 72.

Pollen, 14, 65, 71, 79, 81, 119.

Pollen-basket, 79.

Pollen-bearing, 64.

Pollen-grains, 79.

Polyporus, 57.

Polypody, 159.

Pond, 19, 74, 124, 148, 150-152, 162, 164-167.

Pool, 165, 167, 170, 171, 179, 203.

Poplar, 20.

Porphyry, 180.

Porters, 108.

Poseidon, 207.

Poverty-grass, 76.

Prairie, 65.

Precipice, 169, 180, 182.

Protective coloration, 146, 187.

Puffballs, 116, 128.

Pumpkins, 79.

Pupa, 82, 83, 95, 96, 104-106, 108-111.

Pupa-cases, 95.

Purple finch, 18.

Purslane, 69.

Pussy-willows, 13.

Queen bumblebee, 80, 81.

Queen mother, 82.

Queens, 98, 99, 105, 108.

Quartz, 134.

Rabbit, 136, 139, 145-149.

Racemes, 190.

Ragweed, 69, 70, 155, 161.

Raid, 104, 106-109.

Rainbow, 182.

Rain, 130.

Range, 173, 177, 189, 194.

Rapids, 171, 178, 179.

Raspberries, 146.

Ravine, 66, 123, 169, 170, 177, 178.

Red ants, 4, 102, 104-110, 112.

Red cherry, 66.

Red clover, 71.

Redeye, 37, 50, 62, 118, 119.

Red maple, 20, 126.

Red owl, 34.

Redpolls, 24, 162.

Red-shouldered hawk, 161.

Red squirrel, 125, 139-141.

Redtop, 64.

Redwing, 15, 31.

Redwood, 186.

Reindeer lichens, 57.

Reptiles, 132.

Requiem, 54, 207.

Resourcefulness, 188.

Reverie, 72, 182.

Ribbon-snake, 157.

Ripple marks, 5.

Roads, 76.

Robin, 4, 15, 34, 44-46, 143.

Rock-brake, 67.

Rockies, 176, 182, 183.

Rock-maple, 59.

Rocks, 179, 180, 183, 199, 203.

Rockweed, 77, 203.

Rome, 131.

Rose, 31, 59, 63, 64, 72, 118, 130, 131, 148.

Rose-breasted grosbeak, 47.

Rose-mallow, 122.

Rose pogonia, 168.

Round-leaved spurge, 76.

Ruby kinglet, 48, 170.

Rue-anemone, 20.

Ruffed grouse, 24, 156.

Runways, 148.

Rush, 57.

Russula, 116.

Saga, 198.

Sailor, 206.

Salt-licks, 192.

Sand, 197.

Sandpiper, 124.

Sandstone, 59, 179, 180, 182.

Sand-wasp, 89.

Sanity, 187.

Saplings, 154, 185.

Sapphire, 199.

Sapsucker, 33.

Sassafras, 3.

Satyr, 49, 159.

Savage, 188.

Savin, 113, 127.

Saxifrage, 20, 170.

Scapes, 71.

Scarlet oak, 126.

Schist, 169.

Schooners, 205.

Scorpions, 95.

Sculpins, 77.

Sea, 77, 132, 133, 164, 165, 168, 175, 179, 182, 183, 187, 196-208.

Sea-bird, 207.

Sea-fire, 207.

Sea life, 204.

Sea-mosses, 204.

Sea-shells, 77, 197.

Sea-urchins, 203, 204.

Sedge, 150, 152.

Sedge roots, 152.

Sediment, 179.

Seed, 64, 65, 70, 75, 119, 120, 125, 135, 145, 161-163.

Seed-carrying, 64.

Seedlings, 121.

Self-effacement, 187.

_Sense_ of the sea, 196.

Sensitive fern, 57.

September, 118, 122.

Sequoia, 185-187.

Serpent, 106.

Sertularia, 204.

Shadbush, 64, 123, 124.

Shale, 5.

Shelf fungus, 114, 146.

Shellbark, 157.

Shield-fern, 159.

Shinleaf, 80.

Shooting-star, 183.

Shore, 198, 202, 203.

Shrews, 139.

Shrilling, 19, 53.

Sierra Nevada, 185, 189.

Silence, 187, 191.

Silver fir, 185, 186.

Silver-rod, 113.

Simplicity, 188.

Sky, 165, 171, 191, 194, 198, 199.

Skunk, 149, 155.

Skunk-cabbage, 11, 122.

Slave-making ant, 112.

Slavery, 106.

Slaves, 104, 108-112.

Smilax, 12, 30, 113, 117.

Snakes, 143, 155.

Snipe, 22.

Snow, 70, 140, 141, 147, 152-156, 160, 161, 166, 181.

Snowbird, 27, 66, 190.

Snow-buntings, 22, 24.

Snowflakes, 8, 22, 133, 153, 165.

Snow-storm, 153.

Socialism, 96.

Social wasp, 86, 89.

Solitary wasps, 89.

Solitude, 177, 188.

Solomon's-seal, 62.

Song, 18-20, 31, 32, 41-43, 45-51, 53, 55, 67, 119, 138, 161, 163, 168-170, 178, 190, 198.

Song-birds, 189.

Song-sparrows, 17, 31, 45, 50.

Sorrel, 57.

Sou'wester, 206.

Spagnum, 68, 122, 168.

Sparrows, 16, 17, 31, 37, 38, 42, 43, 45, 46, 50, 70, 118, 155, 162.

Spatter-docks, 152.

Speedwells, 57.

Spicebush, 58, 170.

Spider, 29, 51, 65, 78, 83-89, 117.

Spider's egg, 160.

Spider-web, 64, 84.

Spinnerets, 85, 88, 89.

Spinning, 84, 88, 93.

Spores, 119.

Spray, 203, 207.

Spring, 11-14, 17, 21, 24, 45, 50, 51, 68, 112, 114, 119, 144, 157, 170.

Spring beauty, 1, 20, 61, 169.

Spruce, 6, 32, 57, 66, 67, 181, 182, 185, 186.

Spur, 174.

Spurge, 76.

Spurred violets, 169.

Squirrels, 42, 120, 121, 125, 139-142, 156, 187.

Stag-horn sumac, 123.

Stamens, 78.

Starfish, 203, 204.

Star of Bethlehem, 56.

Stars, 128.

Stinging ants, 95.

St.-John's-wort, 63, 114, 149.