"David, do you hear anything?"--for I, a boy, was ears for him in those
wilderness places.

"No, Father. What is it?"

"Indians."

And, sure enough, in a short time I heard the barking of their dogs and
we came soon upon their camp, where, I remember, they were drying deer
meat upon a frame of poplar poles over an open fire. He told me that the
smoky smell of the Indians, tanned buckskin, parched wild rice, and the
like, were odours that carried far and could not be mistaken.

My father had a big, hooked nose with long, narrow nostrils, I suppose
that this has really nothing to do with the matter, although I have
come, after these many years, to look with a curious interest upon
people's noses, since I know what a vehicle of delight they often are.
My own nose is nothing to speak of, good enough as noses go--but I think
I inherited from my father something of the power of enjoyment he had
from that sense, though I can never hope to become the accomplished
smeller he was.

I am moved to begin this chronicle because of my joy this morning
early--a May morning!--just after sunrise, when the shadows lay long
and blue to the west and the dew was still on the grass, and I walked in
the pleasant spaces of my garden. It was so still...so still...that
birds afar off could be heard singing, and once through the crystal air
came the voice of a neighbour calling his cows. But the sounds and the
silences, the fair sights of meadow and hill I soon put aside, for the