t imagine wishes
to deny that he is of the earth, earthy.

"Bosh!" he said, and "Stuff! Any one who hasn't moss on his eyes can
see I am of the rocks, rocky!"

"Mark me and be astonished!" boasts a stupendous fellow near by whose
face is furrowed by snow-slides. "I am a western mountain. Beat me if
you can!"

"I used to be a fish plantation," remarks a chalky-looking individual.
"It was in the cretaceous period and I lay underneath the sea."

"Lobster plantation?" queries the western one.

"No, you froward ignoramus," replies the fossiliferous fellow, "I
consist of Inoceramus problematicus, Faseiolaria buccinoides, and other
aristocratic mollusks of the which you have never even heard."

... Overhead, an aweless eagle, rising wing above wing says to his
sweetheart, "It is my opinion God made these mountains for no other
reason than that you and I might build our nest in them....."

There is, in this region, a body of water called Maligne Lake, and
Jules DuBois, a trapper, whose son is married to 'Toinette, the niece
of the second cousin of Pierre, whose mother-in-law was the third wife
of Black Moccasin, the chieftain, once told me that this lake is
dreaded by the Indians because there are no fish in it. This is why it
is called "maligne." It frets Jules at the heart to go near it, for he
has heard how the fish have been frightened away by a dead man who
lives there. This man can see without eyes and his face is like a
fungus with white teeth. When he laughs there is a noise in his throat
like the crackle of tamarack twigs, freshly lighted.

Because of the glaciers on these hills and the warmth of the summer in
the valleys, this atmosphere seems like that of an eternal spring.
Just to breathe it is a delight. Here the air strokes you into
quietness till you forget the tearing hurry of life; the fretting
uneasiness that rasps, and the hurt that comes of the fight. This is a
sating of one's desire for the spiritual. And should you wish for a
token you may stay awhile and drink of the water that cascades over the
rocks. This is living water. This is the good wine of the hills. You
may drink it in remembrance.

I am very sorry I must die some day and miss these wilding joys and the
odour of the trees and flowers, but it is my comfortable hope that when
I return to Claeg, the Round One, who is called the earth, I shall be
evolved into a pine-tree and grow happily in this mountain pass. Then
will othe