Life in the Sierra Madre 215 



that takes strong hold of the fancy and imagination. 

 There is an impulse to stop and bare the head before 

 the works of the Infinite Designer of all these mount- 

 ains, hills, and valleys. 



In following the trail or the stream bed up some 

 lateral canon, there is a constant change. Shadows and 

 lights flit, come and go ; now the trail is through 

 some dark green abyss, then broadens out into glorious 

 sunshine, or again where deep shadows ripple down 

 through the interstices of the leaves and dance and play 

 across the trail. 



Crossing the stream perhaps a hundred times, we 

 reach the upper range and camp in the very heart of 

 the forest. The arroyo flows by the camp, and up 

 from the green abyss half a mile distant comes the 

 vibrant roar of the fall, the joyous melody of the waters 

 that are plunging on to the distant sea. 



I have often walked down these cafions at night, 

 when the tone of the wind is different ; all day long it 

 has been from the sea, now it blows from the mount- 

 ains themselves, and from far away comes the murmur 

 of the forest borne softly on, like the voice of the ocean. 

 Now it is among the pine needles, rising and falling, a 

 harp of a thousand strings, the soul of melody in its 

 cadence. The canon is deep in purple shades, and 

 where the trail opens out the upper line is marked by 

 stars, scintillating in intense brilliancy. The lateral 

 canons are of inky blackness, and the rush and melody 

 of the water comes from mysterious and distant points. 



