Western field . eeply when Hor-ton joined me for the walk back. The causehe could not explain. Why should the plum-age of the ptarmigan change from white topink in the brief space of an instant? Sincethen others have asked me to explain. Theyknew as much about the matter before theyasked as I know now. Is it the meanswhereby a beneficent Creator assures thefinding of the ptarmigans stricken body tothe hungered adventurer of the north? With-out it, he would be sorely tried for food. Forsuch a remarkable occurrence there must besome potent reason. Apart from all else, is it not a fitting finalet
Western field . eeply when Hor-ton joined me for the walk back. The causehe could not explain. Why should the plum-age of the ptarmigan change from white topink in the brief space of an instant? Sincethen others have asked me to explain. Theyknew as much about the matter before theyasked as I know now. Is it the meanswhereby a beneficent Creator assures thefinding of the ptarmigans stricken body tothe hungered adventurer of the north? With-out it, he would be sorely tried for food. Forsuch a remarkable occurrence there must besome potent reason. Apart from all else, is it not a fitting finaleto the life of a bird, this subtle change ofplumage? And it appeals to that which isbest in man. Though stupid in life, the deathof this bird of the snow time engenders muchthat is sentimental in the mind of the north-land hunter. More than one strong mortalof rough exterior have I heard voicingthoughts of beauty as the dead ptarmiganwas picked from the snow and its pinkplumage smoothed gently with heavy BERKELEY HILLS. AMETHYST, gold and green;Shadows that lie between;Curves that scallop the blue;Hollows that streams run through;Dots of clustering treesSwaying to passing breeze;Veils of hovering mist;Heights that the sun has kissed;These are the hills we love,Lifting our thoughts above. —Mary Vaughan. AT NATURES SHRINE. T^HE moon shines through the pillared eucalyptus The breeze, rose-scented, sweeps the corridors of night The far Sierras gleam like pale divinities, The west, cloud-robed, like solemn visaged eremite,And I, a watcher of the nights solemnities, Worship at Natures shrine like rapturous . neophyte. —Thomas Maitland Marshall. THE MOUNTAINS. I WANT to be out in the mountains,Where freedom is not a name,Where the soul is glad of its birthrightNor walks with the halt nor the Peace is upon the summits, And Libertys in the the heart of the sad can only be glad In the shadow-haunted dales,With the birds thrilling out in gladness,An
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Keywords: ., bookcentury1900, bookdecade1900, booksubjectsports, bookyear1902
