22 Musings by Cajnp-Fire mid Wayside 



us carry the logs if there had been any occasion for 

 it. The specific evidence of this love-loyalty on 

 their part was that they insisted on punching the 

 fire. 



The campers in these solitudes are not solitary. 

 In the daytime the trees are trees. Very beauti- 

 fully and loftily the spires of pine and hemlock rise 

 out of the valley, and the birch and maple over- 

 shadow us, but they are only trees. At night, 

 when the torch is applied to the wealth of accumu- 

 lated fuel, they are trees no longer. They leave 

 their places and come out of the darkness to join 

 our company. They say not a word, and yet not 

 even to man is given such a variety of character 

 and so much of the mystery of the spiritual world. 

 We catch the thought of that white and stately 

 birch — calmness, purity, and dignity. And so of 

 that mighty pine, somber and lofty. This rustling 

 maple is an old friend. We understand him. He 

 is no mystic, no poet. He talks about sweetness, 

 shade, and beauty — familiar topics. 



That keen but musical and somewhat plaintive 

 note which sounds so far and clear through the 

 forest is that of the white-throated sparrow. There 

 is a tramping heard in the silence of the night, the 

 cause of which is revealed by deer-tracks in the 

 morning near the tents. A few squirrels invite 

 themselves to breakfast, one little chap taking his 

 piece of cracker in his right hand. The crossbills 

 and moose-birds soon establish confidential rela- 



