THE SEQUOIA 283 



In the autumn the sighing of the winds is 

 softer than ever, the gentle ah-ah-ing filling the 

 sky with a fine universal mist of music, the birds 

 have little to say, and there is no appreciable stir 

 or rustling among the trees save that caused by 

 the harvesting squirrels. Most of the seeds are 

 ripe and away, those of the trees mottling the 

 sunny air, glinting, glancing through the midst 

 of the merry insect people, rocks and trees, 

 everything alike drenched in gold light, heaven's 

 colors coming down to the meadows and groves, 

 making every leaf a romance, air, earth, and 

 water in peace beyond thought, the great brood- 

 ing days opening and closing in divine psalms of 

 color. 



Winter comes suddenly, arrayed in storms, 

 though to mountaineers silky streamers on the 

 peaks and the tones of the wind give sufficient 

 warning. You hear strange whisperings among 

 the tree-tops, as if the giants were taking coun- 

 sel together. One after another, nodding and 

 swaying, calling and replying, spreads the news, 

 until all with one accord break forth into glori- 

 ous song, welcoming the first grand snowstorm 

 of the year, and looming up in the dim clouds 

 and snowdrifts like lighthouse towers in flying 

 scud and spray. Studying the behavior of the 

 giants from some friendly shelter, you will see 

 that even in the glow of their wildest enthusiasm, 

 when the storm roars loudest, they never lose 



