Pine-trees," but when he got right up to them Wahb could hear the low,
sweet call of the pinon-nuts, "Here are we, the Pinon-nuts."

And the quamash beds in May sang a perfect chorus when the wind was
right: "Quamash beds, Quamash beds."

And when he got among them he made out each single voice.

Each root had its own little piece to say to his nose: "Here am I, a
big Quamash, rich and ripe," or a tiny, sharp voice, "Here am I, a
good-for-nothing, stringy little root."

And the broad, rich russulas in the autumn called aloud, "I am a fat,
wholesome Mushroom," and the deadly amanita cried, "I am an Amanita.
Let me alone, or you'll be a sick Bear." And the fairy harebell of the
canon-banks sang a song too, as fine as its threadlike stem, and as soft
as its dainty blue; but the warden of the smells had learned to report
it not, for this, and a million other such, were of no interest to Wahb.

So every living thing that moved, and every flower that grew, and every
rock and stone and shape on earth told out its tale and sang its little
story to his nose. Day or night, fog or bright, that great, moist nose
told him most of the things he needed to know, or passed unnoticed those
of no concern, and he depended on it more and more. If his eyes and ears
together reported so and so, he would not even then believe it until his
nose said, "Yes; that is right."

But this is something that man cannot understand, for he has sold the
birthright of his nose for the privilege of living in towns.