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MONG all occupations requiring energy, alertness and skill, none are more predominant with the poetry of picturesque life than that of our forest rangers, who throughout the entire year guard our noble forests from devastation by fire, as well as from myriads of other destructive elements, which with covetous confusion constantly haunt the rich, singing shadows of the woods.

This wonderful woodland life, where all nature seems in harmony with the Infinite, where trees, rocks, rivers and mountains join voice with the birds in one great joyous symphony, initiates sunbeams among the heart shadows of these men, making their souls rise out of chaos and sing with the Nature cho

rus.

Owing to the present inadequacy of Government appropriations, the patrol of each forest ranger necessarily includes a considerable area, and often extends from the lower canyon gates to cloudwreathed mountain peaks. The variation of scenery along the ranger's line of march is kaleidoscopic, and as they rest close against the breast of the great wilderness and listen to its heart beats, the immensity, the sublimity, and the secret wonders of Nature are revealed to them. Along their pathway are singing streams that frolic and dance among the boulders like merry children, with gleaming spray like wisps of sun-tossed hair. There are vast gardens of ferns, where stately lilies wave their golden heads. There are deep, shadowy forests carpeted with aromatic blossoms that lift bright, communicative faces from their nests of leaf mould. There are rugged gorges and stupendous rock cliffs. There are magnificent meadows, all deep

and velvety with luxuriant grasses, and unusually redunaant with wild animal life, the beauty and grace of whose movements gives spontaneity to Nature's scenic garden.

Sometimes the ranger's beat leads through some forest cemetery, where trees, all blackened, seared and distorted by fire, lie pathetically inanimate their usefulness destroyed-their presence ignored by man and beast and bird.

When viewed from some lofty peak, the world rolls away like a mist-robed sea, its billows jeweled with sunbeams, its outlines softened, its vice concealed, while far in the distance the encompassing horizon gathers in its folds the irised edges of the firmament canvas. Here, on what seem to be the topmost pinnacles of the earth, the rangers rest after their woodland journey-and standing thus between heaven and earth they are men content, at peace with the universe.