furrows a little way; cushiony mosses a hundred feet up; the tallest trees 150 ft., the limbs mostly horizontal or drooping in all the spaces. Sounds. Not a leaf stirring; deep hushed repose; one bird, a thrush, singing sweetly, lancing the silence with its cheery humming notes, as the sunshine sifts in thin sunbeams between the boughs, marvelously effective. The whole blessed scene coming into one’s heart as to a home prepared for it. We seem to have known it always. Strange, how strange is this untamed, untouched solitude of the wild free bosom of Alaska, yet how eternally and necessarily familiar then through all, penetrating, saturating all, is the awful hushing sweet-voiced monotone of the stream, like the very voice of God, humanized ...