In the Christmas Woods. 



rains, the pimpernel holds up its head for its share 

 of the good things of plant life everywhere abound- 

 ing. But when the other flowers and weeds have 

 had their day ; when even the burr-clover has 

 ripened and fallen, on the dry hilltops, in the bare 

 meadows, where the burnt earth shows great cracks 

 made by the hot sun, the pimpernel still blossoms 

 cheerily, a picture of humble happiness. The 

 brown towhee is the plainest of our birds. He is 

 not graceful ; he cannot sing ; he has only the charm 

 of brisk cheeriness, unfailing, gentle acceptance of 

 sunshine or cloud, as each comes, to recommend 

 him to us, but he is always a welcome sight about 

 garden or hedge. 



I am interested to note the effects of the storm 

 in the canon. Here flows a swift, deep stream, 

 always cold and usually clear. Evidently the wind 

 has been at work, for across the creek, its spread- 

 ing arms lifted as in appeal against its fate, a great 

 alder lies, broken square off some six feet from 

 its base. As I approach I hear the sharp "tap, 

 tap" of a woodpecker's horny ax, and see the 

 bird fly away. A good carpenter he, by his chips. 

 He has thrown down a considerable pile of clean- 

 cut bits of the hard, yellow wood. They look as 

 tho they had been cut by a tiny brpadax. Crawl- 

 ing under the fallen tree I advance along the bank, 

 but soon find my progress barred by a landslide. 

 The softened earth above has given way, to slip 

 down into the deep cut. Nothing but bed-rock is 

 left, and the bare gray bones of the mountain 



