It was the green heart of the canyon， where the wallsswerved back from the rigid plan and relieved theirharshness of line by making a little sheltered nook andfilling it to the brim with sweetness and roundness andsoftness. Here all things rested. Even the narrow streamceased its turbulent down-rush long enough to form aquiet pool. Knee-deep in the water， with drooping headand half-shut eyes， drowsed a red-coated， many-antleredbuck.
On one side， beginning at the very lip of the pool，was a tiny meadow， a cool， resilient surface of green thatextended to the base of the frowning wall. Beyond thepool a gentle slope of earth ran up and up to meet theopposing wall. Fine grass covered the slope—grass thatwas spangled with flowers， with here and there patchesof color， orange and purple and golden. Below， the canyonwas shut in. There was no view. The walls leaned togetherabruptly and the canyon ended in a chaos of rocks，moss-covered and hidden by a green screen of vines andcreepers and boughs of trees. Up the canyon rose far hillsand peaks， the big foothills， pine-covered and remote. Andfar beyond， like clouds upon the border of the sky， toweredminarets of white， where the Sierra’s eternal snows flashedausterely the blazes of the sun.
There was no dust in the canyon. The leaves and flowerswere clean and virginal. The grass was young velvet.
Over the pool three cottonwoods sent their snowy fluffsfluttering down the quiet air. On the slope the blossoms ofthe wine-wooded manzanita filled the air with springtimeodors， while the leaves， wise with experience， were alreadybeginning their vertical twist against the coming aridityof summer. In the open spaces on the slope， beyondthe farthest shadow-reach of the manzanita， poised themariposa lilies， like so many flights of jewelled mothssuddenly arrested and on the verge of trembling into flightagain. Here and there that woods harlequin， the madrone，permitting itself to be caught in the act of changing itspea-green trunk to madder-red， breathed its fragrance intothe air from great clusters of waxen bells. Creamy whitewere these bells， shaped like lilies-of-the-valley， with thesweetness of perfume that is of the springtime.
There was not a sigh of wind. The air was drowsy withits weight of perfume. It was a sweetness that would havebeen cloying had the air been heavy and humid. But theair was sharp and thin. It was as starlight transmuted intoatmosphere， shot through and warmed by sunshine， andflower-drenched with sweetness.
An occasional butterfly drifted in and out through thepatches of light and shade. And from all about rose thelow and sleepy hum of mountain bees—feasting Sybaritesthat jostled one another good-naturedly at the board， norfound time for rough discourtesy. So quietly did the littlestream drip and ripple its way through the canyon that itspoke only in faint and occasional gurgles. The voice ofthe stream was as a drowsy whisper， ever interrupted bydozings and silences， ever lifted again in the awakenings.
The motion of all things was a drifting in the heart ofthe canyon. Sunshine an butterflies drifted in and outamong the trees. The hum of the bees and the whisperof the stream were a drifting of sound. And the driftingsound and drifting color seemed to weave together in themaking of a delicate and intangible fabric which was thespirit of the place. It was a spirit of peace that was not ofdeath， but of smooth-pulsing life， of quietude that wasnot silence， of movement that was not action， of reposethat was quick with existence without being violent withstruggle and travail. The spirit of the place was the spiritof the peace of the living， somnolent with the easementand content of prosperity， and undisturbed by rumors offar wars.
The red-coated， many-antlered buck acknowledged thelordship of the spirit of the place and dozed knee-deep inthe cool， shaded pool. There seemed no flies to vex himand he was languid with rest. Sometimes his ears movedwhen the stream awoke and whispered； but they movedlazily， with foreknowledge that it was merely the streamgrown garrulous at discovery that it had slept.
But there came a time when the buck’s ears lifted andtensed with swift eagerness for sound. His head wasturned down the canyon. His sensitive， quivering nostrilsscented the air. His eyes could not pierce the green screenthrough which the stream rippled away， but to his earscame the voice of a man. It was a steady， monotonous，singsong voice. Once the buck heard the harsh clash ofmetal upon rock. At the sound he snorted with a suddenstart that jerked him through the air from water tomeadow， and his feet sank into the young velvet， while hepricked his ears and again scented the air. Then he stoleacross the tiny meadow， pausing once and again to listen，and faded away out of the canyon like a wraith， soft-footedand without sound.
The clash of steel-shod soles against the rocks began tobe heard， and the man’s voice grew louder. It was raised ina sort of chant and became distinct with nearness， so thatthe words could be heard：
“Tu’n around an’ tu’n yo’ face
Untoe them sweet hills of grace
（D’ pow’rs of sin yo’ am scornin’！）.
Look about an’ look aroun’，
Fling yo’ sin-pack on d’ groun’
（Yo’ will meet wid d’ Lord in d’ mornin’！）.”
A sound of scrambling accompanied the song， and thespirit of the place fled away onthe heels of the red-coatedbuck. The green screen was burst asunder， and a manpeered out at the meadow and the pool and the slopingside-hill. He was a deliberate sort of man. He took in thescene with one embracing glance， then ran his eyes overthe details to verify the general impression. Then， andnot until then， did he open his mouth in vivid and solemnapproval：
