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their social centre. In these wild gardens the 

 matchless solitaire is found. Often he sings from 

 the top of a spruce and accompanies his song by 

 darting off or upward on happy wings, return- 

 ing and darting again, singing all the time as if 

 enchanted. 



Among the hundreds of these happy resting- 

 grounds in which I have camped, one in the 

 San Juan Mountains has left me the most mem- 

 ories. I came there one evening during a severe 

 gale. The wind roared and thundered as im- 

 pressively as breakers on a rock-bound shore. 

 By midnight the storm ceased, and the tall 

 trees stood as quietly as if content to rest after 

 their vigorous exercise in the friendly wrestling- 

 match with the wind. The spruces had become 

 towering folded flags of fluffy black. After the 

 gale the sky was luminous with crowding stars. 

 I lingered in the centre of the opening to watch 

 them. The heavens appeared to be made of 

 many star-filled skies, one behind the other. 

 The farthest one was very remote, while the 

 closest seemed strangely near me, just above 

 the tops of the trees. 



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