Western field . rampling the aead it could be no very small animal, for itseemed as if it were treading the forestdown before it. On and on it came! Discretion is the better part of was not necessary; we read it ineach others eyes, and with one consent webegan to scramble up the nearest mountainside, instinct leading us in the opposite di-rection from the crackling brush. Welooked for no trail, and we cnose no path,but simply pushed and pulled ourselves upby the straightest climb possible. Not aword did we speak till we reached the top,where by good fortune we found our
Western field . rampling the aead it could be no very small animal, for itseemed as if it were treading the forestdown before it. On and on it came! Discretion is the better part of was not necessary; we read it ineach others eyes, and with one consent webegan to scramble up the nearest mountainside, instinct leading us in the opposite di-rection from the crackling brush. Welooked for no trail, and we cnose no path,but simply pushed and pulled ourselves upby the straightest climb possible. Not aword did we speak till we reached the top,where by good fortune we found ourselvesin a clump of madrone trees. Flinging ourselves on the ground we brokethe silence by questioning each other. Doyou really suppose it was a deer? Itscertainly too late now to go back and findout, and we broke out into laugnter, eachat the other, without any explanation. Oursong on the way home ran to the familiarwords— The bear went over the mountainTo see what he could see. THE PACIIIC COAST MAGAZIXE 115. A BLADE OF GRASS. w HERE the hills caress the sky,And the peaceful valleys lie;Where the silence lightly broodsOer enchanted solitudes;Close beside a silver stream,Midst the rapture of a dream,In times course I came to pass—Just a simple blade of grass. In the rosy mornings light, In the silences of night Where no strife the spirit mars But the glimmer of the stars, Through the night winds, softly stirred Echoings of love I heard In the silence, and I knew All the secret of the dew. All the gleaming mountains night,All the valleys bathed in light;All the sunlights golden the murmuring of the streams;Soft winds gleaning beautys storeWafted to my woodland door;And my tendrils in the sodKnew the whisperings of God. —Harry T. Fee.
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Keywords: ., bookcentury1900, bookdecade1900, booksubjectsports, bookyear1902
