A Hunt for the Pyxie 65 



from the ocean, many of these trees were bent 

 and squatty at the top, as are all those that 

 face the fury of storms along the coast. 

 Every one harbored north-bound migrating 

 birds ; restless, warbling kinglets principally. 

 No other tree seemed to attraft these pretty 

 birds, many a flock passing by scores of oaks 

 to the next cedar in their line of march. 

 The clustered pines were not similarly fa- 

 vored, not a bird of any kind appearing about 

 them, and life of all kinds was wholly absent 

 in the long aisles between their stately trunks. 

 Our path led us through one great grove 

 where every tree grew straight and tall as a 

 ship's mast. The light that filled this wood 

 was strangely beautiful. Nothing stood out 

 distinctly. To have passed here in the gloam- 

 ing would have tried weak nerves. Even in 

 the glare of noonday my imagination was ab- 

 normally adlive, every stunted shrub and 

 prostrate log assuming some startling shape. 

 Think of such a place after sunset ! Let an 

 owl whoop in your ears when hedged in by 

 thick-set trees ! Philosophize as one will in 

 daylight, it goes for little now, and the days 

 of Indians, cougars, and all ill-natured beasts 

 come trooping back. This distrust of dark- 

 * 6* 



