484 
A night or two ago I awoke in a most un- 
comfortable draught, and turn and twist as I 
would in my half-awake condition, the cold 
night air was not to be avoided. He wished an 
interview with me, and, finding the door open, 
~ came grandly in. My tent was arranged so well 
and everything made snug for the night, the 
camp-fire was out, and I had been sleeping 
soundly. It was cold on that clear Sierra night, 
and most woodmice and others bethought them 
of some hollow log or cozy retreat. But, get up, 
the wind said, and with a careful calculation 
as to which garment I was to put on first, when 
once the covers were off, I did arise. And how 
comfortable it was when all was fixed in place 
and a merry fire set snapping in front! There 
was no timepiece in camp, and the stars had 
not been consulted as to where and when they 
should appear, and what position the Dipper 
should be in just before the dawn. But one 
thing was very evident and pressing that needed 
immediate attention, for I had gone to bed 
very tired and had eaten no supper. 
A strange thing about the wind in the Cali- 
fornia mountains, and possibly in other 
mountains, is the regularity with which it will 
come down hill at night. And when one is 
arranging for one’s camping placeone had better 
speak to the trees and rocks and other residents 
as to which trees had best hold the tent that 
its back may be against the downcoming wind. 
At supper time the smoke of the fire will tell 
you the trend and path of the night air and 
you may sleep better if you note it. 
In the Adirondacks a man told me that the 
wind always blew the smoke to the handsomest 
man in camp, and then, with a wink, he ex- 
plained that on occasion we were all eligible to 
that distinction. 
Once when on a high mountain near San 
Francisco I could look down to the ocean and 
see the waves all churned white in a gale, while 
all around us was so still I believe one could 
have carried a lighted candle out of doors. 
The men who live in the mountains, and the 
squirrels, know the temper of his voice and can 
tell you when a storm is brewing. The cones 
come rattling down and all the dead twigs that 
are not just strong enough are broken and 
cover the ground. Every spring the ground is 
strewn with fresh litter and it seems that there 
always will be a number of discards to make, 
as we would look over old letters. 
Sometimes when looking toward the sun 
you can see silvery threads waving like long 
pennants on the air and they are at times 
caught in the light in such a way that they 
appear violet or green, and one wonders where 
they are from. Boys will be boys, and I 
Suppose some youngster of a spider is flying 
RECREATION 
his kite against the blue sky of this June 
morning and wondering why she pulls so, and 
if he will have time to reel in all the line before 
his mother wishes some errand done or his 
comrades go home and leave him on the hilltop 
alone. And what does the wind do with all 
these spiderwebs when he comes back? Does 
he attach them first to the branches of a tree 
before taking a new point of departure or are 
there many loose ends that are never taken up? 
Surely there must be some disappointed 
spiders at the other end of the lines, and one 
naturally asks how long did they wait before 
they realized that the wind had changed his 
plans. 
It has been said that all we can do is to move 
things, and, surely, the wind is a good mover. 
Think of the ships and their cargoes and the 
many other things. But what came closer to 
my interests one winter while snowbound in 
the Sierras was the thought that a big pine 
tree might blow down and crush my cabin and 
possibly do me harm. It was a large tree and 
leaned as though hurt in some winter storm, 
and in passing it on my way to the spring it 
would talk to me, as trees talk by creaking and 
groaning, as though old rheumatics had it 
for sleeping out nights and being careless of the 
rain, the penalty most of us hardy ones pay 
for being strong. My suspicions grew from day 
to day that the old fellow wished to lie down 
and give up the struggle. But I did not wish 
him to lie down on me or on my cabin, for he 
measured about five feet through, and his fall 
would shake the earth a mile away. On windy 
nights I would go visiting and if it did not 
calm down by bedtime, an explanation would 
be made of the affairs at my house and, with a 
smile, I would be invited to sleep in peace at 
my neighbors. 
In the spring I moved away, and through the 
long delightful summer of the California 
mountains all went well, but the following 
winter an old trapper wrote me that a large pine 
to the north of my cabin had blown down in a 
storm and crushed my little abode. Years after 
I passed the place and looked over the pieces of 
snow-bleached boards, and the parts of a rusty 
stove, and noticed where a shake-maker had 
taken out a cut to see if it would rive. A squirrel 
scampered up to a neighboring branch and 
commenced to dance and chatter as though 
he was tickled to think of my narrow escape. 
And yet I love the wind when he is gentle. 
He is strong, and we all admire great strength. 
And if we could see him his very size would 
captivate us, for he seems to fill the place. And 
though he has no voice of his own, how he can 
play on the trees ! EvuGENE WELLS. 
Wawona, Mariposa County, Cal. 
— SS 
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