entity of the wilderness to which, obviously, he belonged.  Here he blended, harmonized, disappeared when he held motionless.  The well-worn, tall, laced boots were of brown leather, much scuffed, one in colour with the soil dusting them.  The khaki trousers gathered into the boot-tops, the soft flannel shirt, were the brown of the tree trunks; skin of hands and face and muscular throat were the bronze of ripe pine-cones and burnished pine-needles.  And, in a landscape spotted with light and shadow, the head of black hair might have passed for a bit of such pitch-black shadow as a tuft of thick foliage casts upon the light-smitten ground.

Beyond this outward harmony there was something at once more intangible and yet more vital and positive that made the man a piece with the natural world about him.  Perhaps it was that he had lived so many months of so many years in the open that he had grown to be true brother of the wild; that he had shed coat after coat of artificial veneer as he took on the layers of tan; that in doing so he shed from his mind many of the artificialities of the twentieth century and remembered ancient instincts.  His deep chest knew the tricks of proper breathing; he would come to the top of a steep climb with unlaboured breath.  He stood tall and stalwart, filled with vigorous strength in repose like the straight valiant cedars.  His eyes were black and piercing, as keen as those of the hawk which, circling in the deeper sky, had seen him when he moved; he, too, had seen the hawk.  All about him was a lustily masculine phase of the world, giant trees dominating giant slopes, rugged boulders upheaved, iron cliffs defying time and battling the years; he, like them, was virile, his sex clothing him magnificently.  He had not shaved for three days and yet, instead of looking untidy, was but clothed in the greater vitality.  While his eyes sped swiftly hither and thither, now busied with wide groupings, now catching small details, his face was impassive.  In keeping both with his own magnificent physique and the rugged note of the forest, it was the face of a man who had defied and battled.

Beyond the lake a peak upthrust its rocky front into the sky.  It frowned across the ridges, darkened by the shadows which its own irregularities cast athwart its massive features.  But the sun, slowly as it rolled, sought out those shadows; they moved, crept to other hiding-places, and the golden light coaxed a subdued, soft gentleness across the massive boulders.  This, too, the man saw.

He stood looking out across the ridges and so to the final bulwark against the sky still white with last December.  He sought landmarks and measured distance, not in miles but in hours.  Then he glanced briefly at the sun.  But now, before starting on again, he turned from the more distant landscape and, remembering the immediate scene about him as he had viewed it last, drowsing in the Indian summer of last October, he noted everywhere the handiwork of young June.  The eyes which had been keen and alert filled suddenly with a shining brightness.