Bif e on 



tastically to the mossy festoons of the fir trees. 

 I was miles from the nearest human soul, and as 

 I stood in the enchanting scene, amid the beau- 

 tiful mellow light, I seemed to have been wafted 

 back into the legend-weaving age. The silence 

 was softly invaded by zephyrs whispering in the 

 treetops, and a few moonlit clouds that showed 

 shadow centre-boards came lazily drifting along 

 the bases of the minarets, as though they were 

 looking for some place in particular, although in 

 no hurry to find it. Heavier cloud-flotillas fol- 

 lowed, and these floated on the forest sea, touch- 

 ing the treetops with the gentleness of a lover's 

 hand. I lay down by my camp-fire to let my fancy 

 frolic, and fairest dreams came on. 



It was while camping once on the slope of Mt. 

 Coxcomb that I felt most strongly the spell of the 

 camp-fire. I wish every one could have a night by 

 a camp-fire, by Mother Nature's old hearthstone. 

 When one sits in the forest within the camp-fire's 

 magic tent of light, amid the silent, sculptured 

 trees, there go thrilling through one's blood all 

 the trials and triumphs of our race. The blazing 

 wood, the ragged and changing flame, the storms 



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