66 GREEN TRAILS AND UPLAND PASTURES 



embers sizzle, saddest of sounds when the camp has been 

 a happy one. We paused at the edge, looking down into 

 the dark forest far below us, where already the evening 

 shadows were gathering. Behind, in the meadow, the 

 sun was still bright; the yellow lily bells of the dog- 

 tooth violets were nodding in a vagrant wind; we could 

 hear the murmur of the little brooks that flow softly 

 over grass. I never took a downward step with more 

 reluctance. 



I am back in the East now, but I cannot forget that 

 magic meadow of green and gold on Piegan Pass, nor a 

 certain campfire under Rising Wolf, nor the evening 

 shadows on the noble flanks of Going-to-the-Sun, nor the 

 faint, far thunder of waterfalls in the night, nor the siren 

 song of the little ice- water brooks in the uplands starred 

 with violets, nor the vast rock walls which make you 

 humble in your flush of health and happiness. 



There was a small boy in our party who, on his return 

 to his home in the Berkshires, took a long look at Mount 

 Everett, at all the hills about his dwelling, at the pas- 

 tures and ploughed fields, and then remarked sadly: 

 "Father, this is practically a prairie!" 



I know exactly how he felt. 



