NORTHERN FLOWERS 83 



It looked as if it had just had a priming coat of delicate 

 green paint. 



But the mighty emerald billow that rose from the rear of 

 the village — we all climbed that, some of us repeatedly. 

 From the ship it looked as smooth as a meadow, but the 

 climber soon found himself knee deep in ferns, grasses, 

 and a score of flowering plants, and now and then push- 

 ing through a patch of alders as high as his head. He 

 could not go far before his hands would be full of flowers, 

 blue predominating. The wild geranium here is light 

 blue, and it tinged the slopes as daisies and buttercups do 

 at home. Near the summit were patches of a most ex- 

 quisite forget-me-not of a pure delicate blue with yellow 

 center. It grew to the height of a foot, and a handful 

 of it looked like something just caught out of the sky 

 above. Here too, was a small delicate lady's slipper, pale 

 yellow striped with maroon. Here also was a dwarf 

 rhododendron, its large purple flowers sitting upon the 

 moss and lichen. The climber also waded through 

 patches of lupine, and put his feet upon bluebells, Jacob's 

 ladder, iris, saxifrage, cassiope, and many others. The 

 song birds that attracted our notice were the golden- 

 crowned sparrow and the little hermit thrush. The 

 golden- crown had a peculiarly piercing plaintive song, 

 very simple, but very appealing. There were only three 

 notes, but they were from out the depths of the bird's 

 soul. In them was all the burden of the mystery and 

 pathos of life. 



In the spruce groves to the north opened up by the old 

 grassy road, beside the birds named, one heard the pine 

 grosbeak, the gray-cheeked thrush, and the weird strain of 

 the Oregon robin. This last bird was very shy and hard 

 to get view of. I reclined for two hours one day upon 

 the deep dry moss under the spruces, waiting for the 

 singer to reveal himself. When seen he looks like our 



