This evening, despite my fatigue, I was the last one to stay up. My
seat was most comfortable, consisting of thick folds of blankets
against a log. How the wind mourned in the trees! How the camp-fire
sparkled, glowed red and white! Sometimes it seemed full of blazing
opals. Always it held faces. And stories--more stories than I can ever
tell! Once I was stirred and inspired by the beautiful effect of the
pine trees in outline against the starry sky when the camp-fire
blazed up. The color of the foliage seemed indescribably blue-green,
something never seen by day. Every line shone bright, graceful,
curved, rounded, and all thrown with sharp relief against the sky. How
magical, exquisitely delicate and fanciful! The great trunks were
soft serrated brown, and the gnarled branches stood out in perfect
proportions. All works of art must be copied of nature.
Next morning early, while Romer slept, and the men had just begun to
stir, I went apart from the camp out into the woods. All seemed solemn
and still and cool, with the aisles of the forest brown and green and
gold. I heard an owl, perhaps belated in his nocturnal habit. Then to
my surprise I heard wild canaries. They were flying high, and to the
south, going to their winter quarters. I wandered around among big,
gray rocks and windfalls and clumps of young oak and majestic pines.
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