49 
FRAGMENTS FROM A LOG CABIN, 
NEAR SALMON RIVER, BRITISH COLUMBIA. 
ME long winter has gone. Once more the valleys and 
the southern slopes of the mountains are exposed to 
view. Warm breezes, spring sunshine, rain, shed by 
clouds hither borne by the south wind, have melted 
the winter snows. Under the influence of the season the great 
whiteness has for the last month been slowly retreating across 
the meridians to the eternal winter of the far North. Now, 
except upon the higher peaks, the snow is all gone, and the 
long-hidden, rested earth, is once more green witli renewed life. 
Some hundred feet below my cabin, the Salmon River, a 
tributary of the mighty Columbia, rushes in surging tumult 
through the rocks which dispute its journey to the Pacific. As 
I sit writing by the window, its music floats from below in 
varying cadence. .\non, in fancy it carries one across the 
forests to where the great combers come rolling in upon the 
beaches of the Pacific Ocean. Again, one hears it tell of wintry 
spume and spindrift, thrashing the shores of old Devon ; but I 
look upwards, and see the pine tops bending, and know that 
it is the winds and waters which I hear in unison. 
By and by, in the mid-life of summer, the now boisterous 
river will flow in a gentler mood, splashing and tumbling on 
in diminished volume over the rocks and pebbles, with here a 
little playful rapid, then again lovely shady pools teeming with 
mountain trout. 
Some few hundred yards from my door, there flows a little 
spring-fed creek. Let us journey there awhile. It is pleasant 
sometimes to leave the river, with its tale of strife, and turn 
to the more tranquil beauty of the fern-covered, moss-grown 
banks of my little rivulet. All around in the shadier and 
damper spots, the vivid green moss- carpet is splashed with the 
white-tinted blossoms of thousands of lilies, the air laden with 
their fragrant breath. They are lovely flowers, but a few days 
of exotic growth spans their feeble life. Just before they wither 
and die their white tint changes into a delicate shade of pink. 
Later, when the sun penetrates deeper into the glades, the ground 
near the little creek will be covered with wild musk, and in the 
open spaces there will spring up a profusion of various coloured 
flowers. Many of the wild flowers which grow here are similar 
to those one meets with in old English country gardens. In 
the early morning, just as the sun is peeping over the mountain 
top, the whole forest is atune with the carol of the birds. Soon, 
when the sun mounts higher, one only hears a diminished choir ; 
then again, when the western peaks are reddening with his 
declining rays, the full-feathered songsters seem to unite in 
vesper warblings. Slowly the valley sinks to rest, shadows 
creep up the mountain side, darkness settles down upon the 
