properly of the forest, but seek the clearing and 

 the settlement. An Oregon snowbird has her nest 

 near by and comes hopping about on her mar- 

 keting expeditions. A pair of lazuli-finches also 

 live on the edge of the clearing, and the male is, 

 perhaps, the most beautiful bird in the forest. His 

 demure little mate is seldom seen, as she is preoc- 

 cupied with her domestic cares, but he constantly 

 flits about in the chaparral, where he gleams in 

 the sunlight like a jewel. 



One other neighbor we have, an Audubon her- 

 mit-thrush, which might be a voice merely — like 

 Echo haunting the mountain — and no bird at all. 

 He appears to sing in the twilight only, and his 

 song, like that of all thrushes, is spiritual and 

 unworldly. A single white lily, tall and branching, 

 stands near the camp, and day after day opens its 

 ghostly racemes in the dusk to white moths which 

 come flitting out of the forest like winged Psyches ; 

 and with the opening of the spirit-like flower comes 

 the vesper song of the thrush. 



Night in the forest is a spell, an enchantment. 



It descends suddenly and envelopes us in darkness, 



tangible and real. The wickiup stands at the edge 



of a little clearing, and, as we roll ourselves in our 



190 



