THE AMERICAN BOTANIST 141 



on miles and miles of forest, even-topped as a field of wheat. 

 Off in the southwest the Wilamette Valley lay buried in clouds. 

 On the east the plains stretched away in a yellow haze of wheat 

 fields, for it was harvest time. 



The wind cut through me and my fingers were so numb 

 that I could hardly write my name in the book kept in an iron 

 box on the summit. 



The sun was now nearly down and I knew I must hurry 

 to reach camp before dark. The descent was much more easy 

 than the upward climb had been and I reached camp just at 

 dusk. There were not many trees near me, that is trees that 

 were living ones; but not far away was a clump of dead white- 

 barked pine. I gathered fuel from these and started a fire. It 

 was most excellent fuel, burning with a steady flame and dying 

 down into a great heap of glowing embers that lasted a long 

 time. I had never before seen pine that made a fire like that. 

 I suppose it may be due to the fact that the trees grow very 

 slowly at these hign altitudes. 



What a night that was ! I lay in my blankets and looked 

 up into the universe of stars. How bright and steady they 

 shone in that clear high atmosphere ; beacon lights in the in- 

 finity of space — "street lamps in the city of God !" In the morn- 

 ing the little stream that came from the snowfield was silent. It 

 was frozen solid. I had been up most of the night gathering 

 fuel for the fire, if it had not been for the fire I believe I 

 should have frozen to death. 



I reached home that same evening tired and footsore, but 

 feeling that the time had not been wasted, for I had become 

 better acquainted with the great mountain, and perhaps, in 

 some small way better acquaint! with Him whose handiwork 

 is the everlasting hills. 



