om. We pushed on with necessary
cruelty, forcing the tired horses to their utmost, searching every
ravine and every slope for a feed; but only ferns and strange green
poisonous plants could be seen. We were angling up the side of the
great ridge which separated the west fork of the Skeena River from
the middle fork. It was evident that we must cross this high divide
and descend into the valley of the middle fork before we could hope
to feed our horses.

However, just as darkness was beginning to come on, we came to an
almost impassable slough in the trail, where a small stream descended
into a little flat marsh and morass. This had been used as a
camping-place by others, and we decided to camp, because to travel,
even in the twilight, was dangerous to life and limb.

It was a gloomy and depressing place to spend the night. There was
scarcely level ground enough to receive our camp. The wood was soggy
and green. In order to reach the marsh we were forced to lead our
horses one by one through a dangerous mudhole, and once through this
they entered upon a quaking bog, out of which grew tufts of grass
which had been gnawed to the roots by the animals which had preceded
them; only a rank bottom of dead leaves of last year's growth was
left for our tired horses. I was deeply anxious for fear they would
crowd into the central bog in their efforts to reach the uncropped
green blades which grew out of reach in the edge of the water. They
were ravenous with hunger after eight hours of hard labor.

Our clothing was wet to the inner threads, and we were tired and
muddy also, but our thoughts were on the horses rather than upon
ourselves. We soon had a fire going and some hot supper, and by ten
o'clock were stretched out in our beds for the night.

I have never in my life experienced a gloomier or more distressing
camp on the trail. My bed was dry and warm, but I could not forget
our tired horses grubbing about in the chilly night on that desolate
marsh.

A CHILD OF THE SUN

Give me the sun and the sky,
The wide sky. Let it blaze with light,
Let it burn with heat--I care not.
The sun is the blood of my heart,
The wind of the plain my breath.
No woodsman am I. My eyes are set
For the wide low lines. The level rim
Of the prairie land is mine.
The semi-gloom of the pointed firs,
The sleeping darks of the mountain spruce,
Are prison and poison to such as I.
In the fo