IN SIGHT OF SHASTA 



Blending with the wind harp sweeping across the pines on 

 the high ridges, the wild cries of a pair of prairie falcons sound 

 afar. And then I catch the chick-a-de-de of a flock of moun- 

 tain chickadees as they merrily flit through the branches of a 

 gnarled old cedar. Coming to an open reach where I look 

 afar upon blue ridge back of ridge, melting into the smoke 

 haze of the horizon, the song of the canon wren ascends from 

 the rocky gorge — a loud, sweet, wild crescendo — trvee-txpee- 

 ilvee-tTvee-twee! 



At length the summit of the crags is gained, where the wind 

 is storming over the bold pinnacles, the mottled gray domes of 

 granite lifted still above and sheer walls dropping away a thou- 

 sand feet and more below. To the north, framed by the 

 near-by rocky spires, lies Shasta, serene, sublime, the peerless 

 warder of this northern principality. Here let us bid adieu to 

 the wild things living in its sight — the wild rocks lifted far 

 above the forest ranges, the wild flowers blowing in cranny and 

 vale, and the wild birds, each after its kind seeking food and 

 habitation, in the seclusion of the forest, amid stony fastnesses, 

 or on dauntless wing trusting to mid-air. The wilderness is 

 theirs by natural right, and it is fitting that we yield to them 

 something of the respect which is their due. 



[125] 



