The Lone Highwayman [pp. 280-286]

7The Lone Hzi,hwayman.
more monotonous, and in no place dangerous. The grades are broad and not
so heavy. Fires have broken out in the
forest, and burned bridges and smoking
trees meet the eye. Pines and firs are
killed by a touch of fire, and stand lifting bare, blackened trunks, ridged and
scarred by the destroying element. Redwoods yield their trunks for a time, but
lift their foliage-crowned heads proudly,
and ere long there appears along the
blackened surface a lovely fresh growth,
having the appearance of an exquisite
vine reaching toward the sky. It seems
curious that a wood burning so readily
when dry should when green possess
such resistant power.
There is but one vine that actually
climbs these trees, and that is the poison
oak. Seen at its best, in the fall, it
sends up a slender line of red and yellow and pink, sometimes to the height
of fifty feet.
In some parts of the coast mountains
there are miles where the only evidence
of man's presence is the road. Away
from that not a tree has been touched
by ax or fire. It is dark, and cool, and
shady, with scarcely the twitter of birds
to break the Sabbath stillness.
It is interesting to see how trees accommodate themselves to their surroundings. Oaks and madrofios when
not allowed room for spreading branches
send up tall trunks with umbrella-like
tufts of foliage at the top. Occasionally
in an open field in some valley stands a
single oak. No other tree is near. Unprotected it has stood the buffetings of
a thousand storms, not uprooted by
them but strengthened, and it strikes
its roots down deeper and deeper and
spreads its branches wider and wider till
it is a marvel not only of size but of
symmetry.
Beguiling the time with joke and song
we ride merrily along, admiring all we
see, even to the velvety-leaved oxalis
and the pretty little ferns rolled up in
silver balls for their winter's sleep.
Finally the last hill is passed, the last
stretch of level ground traversed, and
we find ourselves in Ukiah, hot and dusty,
and altogether fit subjects for the manipulation of the feather dusters of the
hotel clerks.
AIary L. Saarlon.
THE LONE HIGHWAYMAN.
ROCK-RIBBED and brown under a July
sun lay the far off Carbonate range, yet
what could be more tender than the faint
blue haze that wrapped its base? Nature
in its utmost dignity yet has friendly
phases: it is the distant north star that
gives hope and help to the seafarer; apparently it was the massy bulk of Mount
Syloshone, with the lonely haze that
flared about the foothills, that touched
Myrta Wilmer's heart and drew a tear
to her soft cheek as she leaned against
the veranda rail.
Before her the stage road stretched
in tandem directly through the village.
On either side were fragrant hedges,
and behind these low barriers bending
orchards swayed. Beyond was the forest, and through its foliage the cut of
the stage road opened straight until its
green walls met in far perspective. Farther on towered Mount Syloshone with
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