arried out and away and far beyond the area of the shaded
branches; to be caught up by other counter currents of wind and hurled,
perhaps, down the mountain side, destined to forest the naked side of a
cliff a thousand years hence. It is a fact, too, worth remembering and
crediting to the wiles and ways of Dame Nature that destruction by fire
tends but to free these conifer seeds from the cones; so that they fall
on the bare burn and grow slowly to maturity under the protecting
nursery of the tremulous poplars and pulsing cottonwoods.

* * * * *

The train has not gone very far in the National Forests before you see
the sleek little Douglas squirrel scurrying from branch to branch. From
the tremor of his tiny body and the angry chitter of his parted teeth,
you know he is swearing at you to the utmost limit of his squirrel (?)
language; but that is not surprising. This little rodent of the
evergreens is the connoisseur of all conifers. He, and he alone, knows
the best cones for reproductive seed. No wonder he is so full of fire
when you consider he diets on the fruit of a thousand years of sunlight
and dew; so when the ranger seeks seed to reforest the burned or scant
slopes, he rifles the _cache_ of this little furred forester, who
suspects your noisy trainload of robbery--robbery--sc--scur--r--there!

Then, the train bumps and jars to a stop with a groaning of brakes on
the steep down grade, for a drink at the red water tank; and you drop
off the high car steps with a glance forward to see that the baggage man
is dropping off your kit. The brakes reverse. With a scrunch, the train
is off again, racing down hill, a blur of steamy vapor like a cloud
against the lower hills. Before the rear car has disappeared round the
curve, you have been accosted by a young man in Norfolk suit of sage
green wearing a medal stamped with a pine tree--the ranger, absurdly
young when you consider each ranger patrols and polices 100,000 acres
compared to the 1,700 which French and German wardens patrol and daily
deals with criminal problems ten times more difficult than those
confronting the Northwest Mounted Police, without the military authority
which backs that body of men.

You have mounted your pony--men and women alike ride astride in the
Western States. It heads of its own accord up the bridle trail to the
ranger's house, in this case 9,000 feet above sea level, 1,000 feet
above ordinary cloud line.