"Think of the danger in fire.
That's what is called by the foresters, 'extra hazard,' as I guess Mr.
Hilliard knows."
Oh, yes, Nick knew. But, seeing with Angela's eyes, he envied the
lover-trees their peril. He, a lonely tree, had already taken fire, but he
would gladly risk the "extra hazard." What if--and his thoughts ran ahead
to the day in the redwoods, that day set apart by his mind as the _clou_
of the excursion--what if the thing her eyes seemed to say to him should
be true? What if she could love him, and give up her world, that world
which he saw vaguely, as a dazzling vision? What if, to-morrow, she too
should know the thrill of "extra hazard"?
No wonder, then, as he dreamed, that the glacier meadows encircled by
green walls of forest primeval should seem like fairy rings, visible to
mortal eyes only as a special privilege. In the sunlight-gold, the sheets
of azaleas, cyclamen, and violets, were embroidered tapestries of pink and
purple; the bright rivulets of melting snow that bathed the wild flowers'
roots became a network of diamonds.
Here and there, under the huge coniferous trees, lay patches of snow still
unmelted, though the month was June. Indian fire glowed red on the white
expanse, blood on marble, and scarlet snow-plant sent up lurid spouts like
flaming fountains.
Pages:
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359