chasing the violet and amethyst shadows down the canons. It was all
more beautiful than I can tell you. On one side the canon-walls were
almost straight up. It looked as if we might step off into a very world
of mountains. Soon Old Baldy wore a crown of gleaming gold. The sun was
up. We walked on and soon came to a brook. We were washing our faces
in its icy waters when we heard twigs breaking, so we stood perfectly
still. From out the undergrowth of birch and willows came a deer with
two fawns. They stopped to drink, and nibbled the bushes. But soon they
scented strangers, and, looking about with their beautiful, startled
eyes, they saw us and away they went like the wind. We saw many great
trees uptorn by the storm. High up on the cliffs Zebbie showed me where
the eagles built every year.... We turned homeward and sat down upon
the trunk of a fallen pine to rest and take another look at the
magnificent view. Zebbie was silent, but presently he threw a handful
of pebbles down the canon wall. "I am not sorry Pauline is dead. I have
never shed a tear. I know you think that is odd, but I have never
wanted to mourn. I am glad that it is as it is. I am happy and at peace
because I know she is mine. The little breeze is Pauline's own voice;
she had a little caressing way just like the gentlest breeze when it
stirs your hair. There is something in everything that brings back
Pauline: the beauty of the morning, the song of a bird or the flash of
its wings. The flowers look like she did. So I have not lost her, she
is mine more than ever. I have always felt so, but was never quite sure
until I went back and saw where they laid her. I know people think I am
crazy, but I don't care for that. I shall not hate to die. When you get
to be as old as I am, child, everything will have a new meaning to
you."

At last we slowly walked back to the cabin, and at breakfast Zebbie
told of the damage the storm had done. He was so common-place that no
one ever would have guessed his strange fancy....

I shall never forget Zebbie as I last saw him. It was the morning we
started home. After we left the bench that Zebbie lives on, our road
wound down into a deeper canon. Zebbie had followed us to where a turn
in the canon should hide us from view. I looked back and saw him
standing on the cliffs, high above us, the early morning sun turning
his snowy hair to gold, the breeze-fingers of Pauline tossing the
scanty locks. I shall always remember h