"There are silences, and again there are whole symphonies of sound. The
winds smites the tree-tops over our heads, a surf-like roar comes up the
slope, and the yellow pine-needles fall across the deepest darks as motes
sail down a sunbeam. One wearies of the constant perpendicular, always
these stiff, columnar lines, varied only by the melancholy incline where
some great pine-chieftain is leaning to his fall supported in the arms of
his comrades, or by the tragic prostration of the 'down timber'--beautiful
straight-cut English these woodsmen talk.

"Last evening John and I sat by the stove in the men's tent, while the
others were in the cabin playing penny-ante with the cook (a sodden brute
who toadies to the Bowens, and sulks with John because he objected to our
hiring the fellow--an objection which I sustained, hence his logical spite
includes me). John was melting pine gum and elk tallow into a dressing for
our boots. I took a mean advantage of him, his hands being in the tallow
and the tent-flap down, and tried on him a little of--now, don't deride
me!--'Wood Notes.' It is seldom one can get the comment of a genuine
woodsman on Nature according to the poets.'"

Moya read on perfunctorily, feeling that she was not carrying her audience
with her, and longing for the time when she could take her letter away and
have it all to herself. If she stopped now, Christine, in this sudden new
freak of distrustfulness, would be sure to misunderstand.

"'For Nature ever faithful is
To such as trust her faithfulness.
When the forest shall mislead me,
When the night and morning lie,
When sea and land refuse to feed me,