My First Summer 



that curl when dry. The wood is red, close- 

 grained, hard, and heavy. I wonder how 

 old these curious tree-bushes are, probably 

 as old as the great pines. Indians and bears 

 and birds and fat grubs feast on the berries, 

 which look like small apples, often rosy on 

 one side, green on the other. The Indians 

 are said to make a kind of beer or cider 

 out of them. There are many species. This 

 one, Arctostaphylos pungens, is common here- 

 abouts. No need have they to fear the wind, 

 so low they are and steadfastly rooted. Even 

 the fires that sweep the woods seldom destroy 

 them utterly, for they rise again from the 

 root, and some of the dry ridges they grow 

 on are seldom touched by fire. I must try to 

 know them better. 



I miss my river songs to-night. Here 

 Hazel Creek at its topmost springs has a 

 voice like a bird. The wind-tones in the 

 great trees overhead are strangely impres- 

 sive, all the more because not a leaf stirs 

 below them. But it grows late, and I must to 



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