giant that tree must have been, generations 

 ago, in its days of strength; how puny the 

 c9J5c O/'Seec/i birches that now grow out of its roots ! You 

 ^Th^/v'd^e remember the great canoe birches by the 

 5^^ wilderness river, whiter than the little tent 



that nestled beneath them, their wide bark 

 banners waving in the wind, soft as the 

 flutter of owls' wings that swept among 

 them, shadow-like, in the twilight. A vague 

 regret steals over you that our own wilder- 

 ness is gone, and with it most of the shy 

 folk that loved its solitudes. 



Suddenly there is a rustle in the leaves. 

 Something stirs by the old stump. A 

 moment ago you thought it was only a 

 brown root; now it runs, hides, draws itself 

 erect — Kwit, kwit, kwit ! and with a whirring 

 rush of wings and a whirling eddy of dead 

 leaves a grouse bursts up, and darts away 

 like a blunt arrow, flint-tipped, gray-feath- 

 ered, among the startled birch stems. As 

 you follow softly to rout him out again, and 

 to thrill and be startled by his unexpected 

 rush, something of the Indian has come un- 

 bidden into your cautious tread. All regret 



