y to be becalmed, the danger is very much
increased from the temptation to drink that seems always to assail the
captain and men in these wearisome delays.

To avoid waiting two or three days at Port Madison for the steamer, we
determined to cross to the next port by an Indian trail through the
woods; though we were told that it was very rough travelling, and that
no white woman had ever crossed there, and, also, that we might have to
take circuitous routes to avoid fires. We started early in the morning,
allowing the whole day for the journey. We passed through one of the
burnt regions, where the trees were still standing, so gray and spectral
that it was like a strange dream. Farther along we heard a prolonged,
mournful sound, that we could not account for; but, in a little while,
we came to where the bright flames were darting from the trunks and
branches, and curling around them. The poor old trees were creaking and
groaning, preparatory to falling. We were obliged, occasionally, to
abandon the trail; or, rather, it abandoned us, being burnt through.
Off the path, the underbrush was almost impassable; the vine-maple, with
crooked stems and tangled branches, with coarse briers and vines, knit
every thing together. It seemed more like a tropical than a northern
forest, there were so many glossy evergreen leaves. We recognized among
them the holly-leaf barberry (known also as the Oregon grape), one of
the most beautiful of shrubs. Its pretty clusters of yellow flowers were
withered, and its fruit not yet ripe. We found also the sallal,--the
Indian's berry,--the salmon-colored raspberry, and the coral-red
huckleberry. Occasionally we heard the scream of a hawk, or the whirring
of great wings above our heads; but, for the most part, we tramped on in
perfect silence. The woods were too dark and dense for small birds.

It was curious to notice how much some of the little noises sounded like
whispers, or like footsteps. There was hardly a chance that there could
be any other human beings there besides ourselves. It recalled to me the
Indian's dread of _skookums_ (spirits) in the deep woods. To him, the
mere flutter of a leaf had a meaning; the sighing of the wind was
intelligible language. So many generations of Indians had crossed that
trail, and so few white people, I felt as if some subtile aroma of
Indian spirit must linger still about the place, and steal into our
thoughts. Occasionally an owl stirred in the thicket be