LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
hobgoblins and spooks. I avoid hugging the trees lest a withered arm with bony hand should reach round and clutch me.
So far we have seen nothing more awesome than solemn brown owls perched high among the firs, silent and meditative as cowled monks. Occasionally at our approach one slips noiselessly away, though oftener he sits motionless, staring down with tragic eyes.
Here, there, and everywhere among these towering trees lie fallen ones. Some have tumbled head first into the canyon, their mighty roots, with tons of earth, reared high in air,—a hanging garden where green mosses grow, with low bushes, trailing vines, and even fine young firs, promising scions of a lordly race. Across these other unfortunates have fallen rampant, while still others are stretched prone upon the ground, half buried in woodland debris.
Here, too, are trees left headless and otherwise disfigured by fierce winds; and many fire sufferers also. Their jagged trunks, painted in motley colors, are left in shapes both fantastic and wonderful,—strange resemblances to man and beast, suggestive of the skill of some wandering wood-carver.
The dullest fancy must see in this burnt-wood exhibit the sculptured majesty of King Lear and the picturesquely posed Huguenot lovers; also our soldiers’ monument, where, poised upon a broken column, stands a fine military figure in full uniform, even to hat, epau-
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