Bluebirds warbled on the wing. The busier chickadees and creepers
searched the twigs and trunks, interpolating occasional remarks. The sun
slanted through the forest.
Bob strode on vigorously. His consciousness received these things
gratefully, and yet he was more occupied with a sense of physical joy
and harmony with the world of out-of-doors than with an analysis of its
components. At one point, however, he paused. The hardwoods had risen
over a low hill. Now they opened to show a framed picture of the river,
distant and below. In contrast to the modulated browns of the
tree-trunks, the new green and lilac of the undergrowth and the far-off
hills across the way, it showed like a patch of burnished blue steel.
Logs floated across the vista, singly, in scattered groups, in masses.
Again, the river was clear. While Bob watched, a man floated into view.
He was standing bolt upright and at ease on a log so small that the
water lapped over its top. From this distance Bob could but just make it
out. The man leaned carelessly on his peavy. Across the vista he
floated, graceful and motionless, on his way from the driving camp to
the mill.
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