The living forests are as inspiriting as the dead forests are depressing. Canada has vast tracts dense with majestic trees, which grow bolt upright to give one another room. In the island of Vancouver, that richly favoured region, I journeyed for hours, in the makeshift rolling stock of a mining railway, through an interminable paradise of lofty trees and lovely undergrowth. Sometimes we zig-zagged on a switchback track right up mountain sides; sometimes we crept cautiously along the edges of deep ravines. Away beyond the forest-wrapped island lay the Pacific Ocean—a broad stretch of soft blue. Man looks a poor little thing in a forest. But, while incidentally unafraid of grizzly bears, he exercises over the trees a dominion as absolute as it is tyrannical. Far in the land of shadows and moss I came upon two specimens of my species—mere dots of creatures less than six feet high—who were assaulting a Douglas fir which, with a girth of three yards, rose to an altitude of over a hundred feet. This is what was happening: Standing on spring boards lodged in the trunk some four feet from the ground, they were working their saw towards a V-shaped cut previously chopped on the other side. I was encouraged by example to stand a few yards from the toilers, and facing the back of the saw. The tree, for all that it leaned slightly in our direction, was destined to fall—everybody was positive—on the other side. A few years ago some men were felling a tall tree in a London suburb, and they worked for many hours with saws, axes and spades, likewise employing an elaborate tackle of ropes; but in the end that tree came down in an unintended direction, doing mischief to a cab horse. My brain was busy with this memory as, with head thrown back, I watched the top of the Douglas fir. It was at least some comfort to reflect that, if human judgment proved at fault, one would see the thing coming, and there should be time to dodge the danger. “She is moving,” someone said. I watched intently. Yes, she was—but how gently, slowly, and silently. No one spoke. Without a tremor, that one tufted tree top went on moving softly towards the other tufted tree tops that were motionless, and the direction of the fall was fulfilling prophecy. In the lapse of seconds, slowness became speed, and silence gave place to thunder. Creaking and groaning, the murdered monarch went crashing through the crowded company of his fellows, who seemed to yell with pain as their limbs were bruised and torn by the helpless falling form, which struck the ground with the report of cannon. Under the soles of my feet I felt the earth heave, and then came the gentle patter of a shower of branches. [Illustration: FRUIT-PICKING IN BRITISH COLUMBIA]