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r I ^HERE was a trembling mist and that dreaded 

 L silence in the valley that foreboded the com- 

 ing of a torrid day. The smoke rested as a heavy 

 cloud behind the cars, and scarcely a leaf stirred 

 as we left the station Raven Rock bound for 

 a distant Indian quarry among the hills. There 

 were three of us a geologist, a botanist, and my- 

 self. Let me add that in this record of a day I 

 am mostly concerned with myself. Autobiogra- 

 phy is a simpler matter than history, and an 

 August day calls for a light task. 



We quickly passed through the village about the 

 station, and while we saw many rocks we saw no 

 ravens. Probably, from the jagged hillside hard 

 by, some ravine has been miscalled, for the crows 

 were now holding the fort, and where they are, 

 ravens find no foothold. 



Along a fairly smooth path we rose at every 

 step above the river. The road was walled in 

 shoulder-high and sadly circumscribed our out- 

 look. We were forced to be content with the 

 ii* 165 



