o “THE PLACE WHERE YOU GO TO GET PETRELS” 
Tis the note of frcidous our satehword cry, 
_As we dive in the sea or soar on high. 
Far from the haunts of curious man. 
_ We rear our young, where few may scan. 
-?’Tis freedom! freedom! the petrel’s song, 
To ine land and the sea do we belong. 
—Nina Moore 
: ae * 
Tar ae att aie ea a aes eae Sia atts fo gs : 
Penh Pte ON fea = TORE Nae atthe lan ar ROONE Rn : 
The soft silvery mist, which would have satisfied the . 
inmost soul of every lover of Corot, hid itself in the warm 
air, and the blue ribbon of the Quillayute River again _ 
emerged from the dense chaparral that fringes its shores. 
Beastie (a little Ford), Mary, and a friend had arrived the © ; 
evening before, after five days of living in primitive fashion 
on the edges of the Olympic Mountains. Now the call of a 
July sun had lured two women across the river, seated in a : 
tippy little dory, which threatened every second to furnish 
them an undesired bath. They did not get much comfort _ 
from the story that the boatman insisted upon telling of 
some fishermen that had waded ashore from this same boat 
_ afew days before; and it was with thankful hearts that they — 
sprang to the bank, which was covered with pillows of the 
tender fronds of that beautiful moss, the Hypnum Splendens. 
An old skid road, which seemed to lose itself in the — 
Juxuriant forest of spruce, cedar, hemlock, and the “lovely _ 
fir’, was bordered with patches of white or lavender fox- 
gloves of gigantic size and wonderful coloring, and its purple 
shadows invited them into its depths. They stepped inside 
and found a new world: long tangles of lichens swung across 
between the branches. of giant elder berry shrubs; every 
broken stump and swaying stem bore tender green masses of _ 
various club mosses, which spread out in fringey edges wits 
_ long, slender, sprangly fronds. 
Russet-backed thrushes and rusty song sparrows were 
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