A solitary brown towhee, sleek and trim, is pecking about in the soft leaf-mold, with the air of mackintoshed and over-shoed comfort that this bird always wears in a storm. The little creature has somehow learned the secret of unfailing contentment. He reminds me, when I see him under adverse circumstances, of that other object-lesson in cheerfulness, the wee pimpernel, sunny-faced anagallis, growing so bravely about the hills. In very early Springtime, when everything is green and lusty after the winter rains, the pimpernel holds up its head for its share of the good things of plant life everywhere abounding. But when the other flowers and weeds have had their day; when even the burr-clover has ripened and fallen, on the dry hilltops, in the bare meadows, where the burnt earth shows great cracks made by the hot sun, the pimpernel still blossoms cheerily, a picture of humble happiness. The brown towhee is the plainest of our birds. He is not graceful; he cannot sing; he has only the charm of brisk cheeriness, unfailing, gentle acceptance of sunshine or cloud, as each comes, to recommend him to us, but he is always a welcome sight about garden or hedge. I am interested to note the effects of the storm in the cañon. Here flows a swift, deep stream, always cold and usually clear. Evidently the wind has been at work, for across the creek, its spreading arms lifted as in appeal against its fate, a great alder lies, broken square off some six feet from its base. As I approach I hear the sharp “tap, tap” of a woodpecker’s horny ax, and see the bird fly away. A good carpenter he, by his chips. He has thrown down a considerable pile of clean-cut bits of the hard, yellow wood. They look as tho they had been cut by a tiny broadax. Crawling under the fallen tree I advance along the bank, but soon find my progress barred by a landslide. The softened earth above has given way, to slip down into the deep cut. Nothing but bed-rock is left, and the bare gray bones of the mountain glisten, wet with the driving rain. The sight awakens both awe and pity. I am glad to see how the mosses are hastening to clothe the rocks again. Tiny spikes of the “horsetail” are already growing where, I am sure, horsetail has not grown for generations.