In the Christmas Woods. 



glisten, wet with the driving rain. The sight 

 awakens both awe and pity. I am glad to see how 

 the mosses are hastening to clothe the rocks again. 

 Tiny spikes of the * ' horsetail ' ' are already growing 

 where, I am sure, horsetail has not grown for gen- 

 erations. 



I climb on, through the exposed roots of an 

 immense redwood stump, a relic of the forest 

 primeval, driving a wood-rat scampering from his 

 haunts as I do so, and come out on a slope of soft 

 leaf-mold. Here the broad green leaves of the 

 trillium are already above ground, the buds begin- 

 ning to show a small green spike. The Solomon's 

 seal is peeping up to give Christmas greeting, but 

 everything is wet. The trillium lies prostrate, its 

 leaves on the ground ; blackberry, huckleberry and 

 wild currant are soaked and wind-blown ; the red- 

 woods droop and drip, with here and there a 

 branch broken by its own wet weight. Neverthe- 

 less, the scene is not cheerless. There is so much 

 of hope in the quiescent greenery, and the fresh, 

 wet scent of the earth is full of promise. 



It is surprising how much rain finds its way into 

 the canon. It might be supposed that such a nar- 

 row cleft between two lines of high hills would 

 escape notice ; but the water pours in from above ; 

 it sweeps through on the searching wind ; it flows 

 down the wooded banks, from the hilltops, and the 

 little stream becomes a river. The rain whips and 

 patters and plays musically among the trees, and 

 roars along with the creek until everything is wetter 



10 



