SWAYING TREE TOPS 



while the hunter dressed his meat, the 

 camper vanished up the darkening 

 gorge. 



The hour between sunset and dark, 

 in the land of the mountains, is the 

 hour the camper loves. He feels that 

 he could wander ever in the darken- 

 ing gorges, and never once feel that 

 they were gloomy. All voices of the 

 wild are distinct at that hour. They 

 may be intermingled, yet with little 

 difficulty each voice may be distin- 

 guished, telling its secrets as a child 

 does when it falls off to sleep. 



The camper, as he picked his foot- 

 ing among the boulders where the 

 stream rushed down, heard the voice 

 that told of snowy heights miles 

 away, where the morning sun first 

 shattered the icy crags with his lance 

 and liberated the tiny stream that 



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