Arizona Gardens 235 
abyss itself, but as far as I have observed, 
content themselves with darting over the 
edge and returning, very much as a man dives 
into a lake and swims to shore again. Blue- 
birds flit among the pines and though they 
make that mystical appeal inseparable from 
their race, the ear accustomed to the note of 
the Eastern bird detects instantly a slightly 
harsher quality in the voice of the Western 
species. On the very rim of the vast abyss of 
colour, the Western robin sings his evening 
song. While his notes are like those of our 
own robin the habits of the bird suggest our 
shyer thrushes. Here he is a bird, not of the 
garden but of the forest, and it is not without 
surprise that one first observes this curious 
difference of temperament and finds our most 
familiar bird apparently assuming the guise of 
ashy wild creature. Of warblers, Audubon’s, 
Grace’s, and the black-throated grey appear 
to be the common species of the plateau. 
In this Coconino forest is the breath of the 
North—the magic of the North. The air 
is fragrant with the resinous odour of yellow 
pine and pifion. In the tree tops the wind 
sighs its world-old song. Yet from under 
the pines at Grand View one looks across the 
Cafion to the Painted Desert beyond—the 
