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 Inese urammar

A Student’s Guide to
Correct Structures
and Common Errors

Q in Xue H erzberg & L a rry H erzberg

Stone Bridge Press • Berkeley，

California
Published by
Stone Bridge Press
p.o. Box 8208
Berkeley, CA 94707
TEL 510-524-8732 • [email protected] • www.stonebridge.com

The publisher acknowledges with gratitude SIL International and its

development of Gentium Basic, http://scripts.sil.org/Gentium.

©2011 Qin Xue Herzberg and Larry Herzberg.

All rights reserved.

No part o f this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from
the publisher.

Printed in the United States o f America.

2015 2014 2013 2012 2011 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

(on file)
 Contents

1 3 INTRODUCTION

Never Translate Literally, WORD-FOR-WORD! Translate

the Gist o f What’s Being Said 13

1 Q CHAPTER ONE
丄 ^ W o rd O rder

(1) Basic word order 19

(2) Action and location: someone does something
somewhere 20
(3) Action and time: when somebody does something 20
(4) Word order for expressing WHEN something
happened 21
(5) Word order for duration o f time: how long someone
did something 21
(6) Placement o f “ why” in a question 23

24 CHAPTER TWO
T im e Expressions (l)

( l) Expressing simultaneous actions 24

 (2) To say “ again” : zàí 再 vs. yòu 又 25
(3) “ A fter” / “ later” : yĩhòu 以后 vs. ránhòu 然后 26
(4) “ Last week， this week, next week” and “ last m onth ，
this month, next m onth” follow the same pattern,
w ith shàng _ t indicating ula s t.. .J11zhè/zhèi ÌẰ
” and xíà 下 indicating “ next
indicating “ this . . . ，
..3 0

32 CHAPTER THREE
Nouns

(1) Plurals in Chinese 32

(2) When counting things, measure words must always
be used between the number and the noun 33
(3) This and that 33
(4) Nouns for nationalities and languages 33
⑸ A ll (of some noun): dõu 都 vs. suỏyổude 所有的 34
(6) How to express the indefinites 35
(7) How to express not even one b it o f something 36
(8) Location words 38

39
CHAPTER FOUR
Verbs

(1) Past tense 39

(2) Present tense 41
(3) Future tense 42
(4) The word “ it ” is usually im plied by the verb 43
(5) Helping verbs (prepositions in English) 46
(6) Going, coming, returning 52
 (7) The bá 把 pattern w ith verbs 53
(8) The shi … de 是 … 的 pattern for past tense
actions 54
(9) The different ways to express passive voice (“ was …
by •••，
，） 55

r r CHAPTER FIVE
O o A djectives

(1) Adjectives: general rules 56

(2) How to translate “bad” depends on the meaning of
“ bad” 58
(3) Use biícuò 不错，
“ not bad，
’’ when you mean “ quite
good” 59
⑷ Different ways to say “ nice” 59
(5) Different ways to say “ pretty” or “ beautiful,”
depending on the subject 61
(6) Comparisons: A b i 比 B 61
(7) Negative comparisons: A is not as [adjective] as B 64

r r CHAPTER SIX
o D V ario us Uses o f th e P a rticle 了
(1) Le T is used after action verbs in the past tense 65
(2) Le 了is used after adjectives to express “ change of
status,” i.e.，
“ became … ” 68
(3) Le 了 is used after verbs to express “ im m inent
action,” i.e.，something ju st about to happen 68
(4) Le T is used w ith verbs or adjectives in the negative
to express “ not any more” 69
 CHAPTER SEVEN
/ V J V a rio u s Uses o f th e P a rticle de: de 的 vs.
de 得 vs. de 地

(1) The uses o f de 的 70

(2) The uses o f ck 得 71
(3) The uses o f de 地 72

^ 7 o CHAPTER EIGHT
/ Ũ C onjunctions: and, o r

(1) Different ways to say “ and” depend on usage 73

(2) How to say “ or” in Chinese 74

^1 r CHAPTER NINE
/ o S ubordinate clauses

(1) Connecting sentences w ith “ who” / ” that” 76

(2) In Chinese, “ i f H • then H •’，
is expressed in three
levels o f form ality 77
(3) “ As soon as … (th e n )… = y ĩ … jiù " •
一 . . . 就 … 78
⑷ “ Even … （
also)… ” = ííán … ，
yế/dõu …
连 ...，也!/都. . . 78
suỏyĩ … 因为… ，
(5) “ Because … ，so … ” =yínwd … ，
所 以 . . . 79
(6) “ It doesn’t m atter •••’’ = Wliíún … dõu …
无 论 ...都 . . . 79
(7) “ Besides … ” = chứỉe."_yĩwàí 除了 … 以外 80
81 CHAPTER TEN
H ow to Express th e V e rb “ Can” in Chinese
(A Huge Can o f W orm s!)

90 CHAPTER ELEVEN
W ord-C hoice Issues w ith C ertain Im p o rta n t
Verbs (I)

(I) “To be a … （profession, friend, etc.)” : differences

between sh丨是, dâng 当， and ZUÓ做 9Ơ
⑵ “ To know” : zhīdao 知道 vs. rẻnshí 认识 vs. hiù 会 91
⑶ The difference between “ to like” xĩhuãn 喜欢 and
“ would like to ” xíárzg 想 92
⑷ The difference between “to think that • • • ，
” xíáng 想，
” juếde 觉得 93
and “ to feel … ，
(5) “To w ant/w ould like (to do something)” : xi&ig 想 vs.
yào 要 vs. xíángyào 想要 94
⑹ Rude vs. refined: yào 要 vs. xiángyào 想要 96
(7) “ I don’t th in k that don’t even THINK about
using bùxíáng 不 想 ！ 97
(8) uTo want someone to be .. .n: xiăngyào vs. xiwang
希 望 vs. bỉxữ 必须 98
⑼ How to translate “to ask” depends on the meaning o f
“ ask” : wẻri 问 vs. qĩng 请 vs.jiào 叫 99
(10) How to translate “ to te ll” depends on the meaning
o f “ te ll” : shuõ 说 vs. jíáng 讲 vs.jíào 叫 vs. gàosu 告诉
vs. ràng 让 100
( II) “To look like” and “ to seem like” : xíàng 像 and
tóoxiàng 好像 101
 (12) “ Receive” : know the difference between the two
characters pronounced shou in Chinese (shõu shòu
受)， both o f which mean “ receive” 101
(13) “ Afraid ”
：know the difference between “ to be
afraid,” hàípà 害怕 , “ to be afraid o f • • • ，
’’ pà 怕 ，
and
“ to be afraid that … ，” kổngpà 恐怕 102
(14) “ W orry” : the subtle differences between dãnxĩn
担心 ， cãoxữi 操心 , /ầc/ióu 发愁 ， and zhāojf 着急 102
(15) “ To help” : bâng 帮，bãngzhù 帮助，
and bãngmấng
帮 忙 104
(16) “ To take” : nđ 拿 vs. dàí 带 vs. zuò 坐 vs. xuárz 选 vs.
pãízhào 拍照 1Ơ5
(17) “ To lose” : diū 丢 vs. s/ưqù 失去 vs. shū 输 vs. míỉù
迷 路 106
(18) “ Produce” : the difference between shểngchđn
生产 ， “ to produce something concrete like coal,
manufactured goods， etc” ’’ and chanshěng 产生 , “ to
produce something abstract, some phenomenon, like
dissatisfaction, unrest, etc.” 107
(19) “ To leave” : zổu 走 vs. Mcãí 离开 vs. ỉtó 留 108
(20) “ To see” : /càn 看 vs. Icàrýíàn/kàndào 看见/ 看到
vs. kànchũỉáí 看出来 vs.jíán 见 vs.jíánmián 见面
vs.jiándáo iĩLỄ!j vs. guānguāng Ms% vs. míngbái
明 â 109

ļ ļ Ọ CHAPTER TWELVE
丄丄 W ord-C hoice Issues w ith A dverbs 1

(1) “ From” : cóng 从 ••• dào 到 vs. h’

离 1:12
(2) The difference between the two ways to say “ firs t” :
xian and shỗuxiãn w 113
(3) How to translate “ actually” depends on usage 114
 (4) “ Although” : siuVđn … ，/cếshí … 虽 然 … ，
可是…
means “ although • • • ，
but 115
(5) “Almost” = chàbùduõ 差不多 vs. chàyỉdíán
差一点 116
(6) cáí 才 ：three ways to say “ unless … “ only if
… ” 117
(7) “ Every tim e” : m ếíd... de shiTiou 每 次 … 的时候
vs. mếídãng/mếí/ếng … de s/iíĩiou 每当 / 每 逢 ...
时 候 ： í li

1 Ọ ^ C H A P T E R THIRTEEN
-L /u V J L e tte r W ritin g : G reetings, S alutations,
and Form s o f Address

n d e x o f Headings
 INTRODUCTION

Never Translate Literally, WORD-FOR-WORD!

Translate the Gist of whaťs Being Said

If you learn nothing else from this book, learn the cardinal rule
o f translation from English into Chinese, or from any language
into another: Never translate lite rally, word-for-word! This is
especially true for slang expressions! Translating lite ra lly w ill
result in faulty communication, or, as in so many cases, be really
funny! Instead, always translate the basic idea, the gist o f what’s
being said.

The two o f us are professors o f Chinese language at an excellent

college in the Midwest, where we’ve taught for many years.
Larry, a native English speaker, has taught Chinese for three
decades at the college level. Xue Qin, his wife, a native speaker o f
Chinese and a graduate o f Beijing Normal University in Chinese
Language and Literature, has been doing her best to get college
students and adult learners in the u.s. to learn her language for
the past two decades. In spite o f having been blessed w ith an
incredible number o f talented and motivated students over the
years, we could fill a whole book w ith examples o f our students
violating the cardinal rule o f translation and coming up w ith
some hilarious as well as some really awful “ no-no’s” in th e ir
homework, essays, and tests.

Here are but a few prime examples o f how our beloved students

. / 13
14 / INTRODUCTION

have, on occasion, butchered the most commonly spoken

language on the planet. The “ Correct Chinese” is labeled “cc
” ；

the “ Butchered Chinese” is “BC.”

My father is Chinese.
ế/ cc：
Wo fuqin shi zhongguó rén.
我 父 中 国 人 。
it BC: Wo fuqin shi Zhongguo.
我父萘惠中国。
Literally: My Dad is China!

I got it!—meaning “ I understand”

•/ cc；Wo mingbai le.
我明白了。
K BC: Wo dédào ỉe.
我得到了。
Literally: I obtained it!

We have dinner at home.

✓ cc：
Women zaijiāli chi wanfan.
我们在家里 é 晚饭。
Literally: We at home eat dinner.
K BC: Women you wanfan zaijiali.
我们有晚後在家 Ế 。
Literally: We have/possess dinner at home.

The basic word order o f Chinese is: who, where, what. The basic
word order o f English is: who, what, where.

I have a headache.
✓ cc；Wo tóu téng.
我头疼。
ÍC BC: Woyou tóuténg.
我有头疼。
(A lite ra l translation.)
Other documents randomly have
different content
THE LITTLE SAINT MARY'S
 CHAPTER IX
THE LITTLE SAINT MARY'S

P
ERHAPS the most sublime sweep of view within the entire
Range is gained from the summit of Mount Lincoln. To
accomplish this ascent it is necessary to leave the tortuous
"switch-back" trail in full view of Gunsight Pass and strike out over a
trackless mass of shattered rock, upward toward the peak. The way
is steep and difficult, the footing slippery and insecure. The muscles
strain to quivering tension, the breath comes in gusty sighs and still
the mighty heap of dull rose and green rock rears its jagged crest
against the throbbing sky. But even if the climb were tenfold longer
and the goal tenfold harder to win, it would be a faint-hearted
seeker after the beautiful who would hesitate to make the sacrifice
of toil for the magnificent reward that awaits him.
The rugged pedestal of stone that crowns the peak, drops
almost precipitately three thousand six hundred feet, and directly
below, in a gorge formed by this and a second chain of lofty
mountains, lie two jade-green lakes, the Little Saint Mary's, joined by
a slender, far-leaping waterfall. So immense is the distance, that this
fall, spanning the seventeen hundred feet between the upper and
lower lakes, does not break the brooding quiet with the whisper of
an echo. The slim, white column parts upon the rocks into a
diamond shape, and when, happily, the sunshine catches in its spray,
it becomes a tangle of rainbows. But now, it unfolds its silver scarf
silently, colourlessly as a ghost, and the green lake, so far below,
receives the pouring tide with never a ripple to mar its smooth
surface. The shadow gathers in the gorge and along the mountains,
the pines are darkly green and in sharp contrast, the unmelted snow
fields lie pale and gray-white to the very rim of the lakes forming a
setting as of old silver. After the first shock of that sublimity has left
the senses free of its thrall, a vast panorama unfolds, dominated by
the majesty of mountain-lords flanked and crowded by range upon
range of others, rising in lessening undulations to the horizon's rim,
as though a sea whose giant billows strove to smite the sky in the
throes of an awful storm, were suddenly transformed to stone.
In the crushing might of these great spaces, peering over the
brink of the mountain top into the bosom of the smooth, still lakes
as coldly beautiful as an emerald's heart, that half-mad idea of self-
annihilation clutches at the mind. Perhaps it is the exhilarating leap
of the waterfall that tempts one, or perhaps the hypnotic charm of
the deep-set, jewel-bright pools, or perhaps some unguessed secret
of gravity which impels the tottering atom into the depths of life-
absorbing space. It is the same terrible, savage joy, the magnetism
of elemental force which we feel as we stand on the brink of the
Grand Cañon of the Yellowstone, with the glorious, brave call to
death crying from the water voices, while the whisper of life sounds
sweetly from the vocal winds of heaven.
And even as we gaze, the sun's light dies and the world is ashen
pale. Suddenly over the distant ranges, storm clouds come trooping
in black hosts. A heavy silence falls, broken now and again by the
boom of thunder and the frightened cry of shelter-seeking birds.
Perched upon a point of rock, silhouetted against the sky, a bighorn
sheep watches the gathering tempest, unmindful of the muttering
thunder and the ominous glow of lightning kindling in the sable-
winged array. There is something noble about him as he turns his
crest upward to bear the onslaught of the blast. The purple of the
mountains overhanging the lake deepens to black—the blue-black of
a clear, night sky—and the snow filling the ravines lies passionless
and white as death. Beneath the driving storm-banners, a luridly
vivid light casts its reflection upon the earth in a gilded path,
revealing the smallest detail of valley and height before the darkness
wraps them in its mantle. The Kootenais for one brief instant shine
like towers of brass and a pallid mist overhanging an arm of the
remote Flathead Lake becomes a golden fleece, then the garish
glare passes and mystery and shadow settle down. Violet tongues of
lightning dart from the trailing clouds, the martial fifing of the wind
makes shrill music through the bleak cairns and empty wastes, and
great, splashes of rain fall fragrantly, refreshingly upon the warm
ground. But in all the tumult, the cold, jade-green lakes lie
unshaken, calm. So truly are they the mountains' brides, held
securely in their embrace of stone, that not even the wild riding of
the gale nor the shivering thunderbolt disturbs their untroubled
depths, while their champions, the peaks, in helmets of pale ice do
battle with the elements.
The deafening cannonade becomes fainter, the sword-thrust of
lightning strikes at other quarry, and the storm, with torn banners
dragging low down the mountain sides, like routed hosts in retreat,
follow the wake of the thunder, the lightning and the tempest-ridden
wind. And as the sun shines forth from the heavens a transformation
beams like a blessing from every crag and rock. Still wet with the
summer rain, they take on strangely beautiful hues of sparkling rose
colour, and green like that of the mother ocean, and the naked,
glacier-ground escarpments reveal the exquisite illuminations
wrought in flowing, multi-colored bands, in subtle shade and
wordless rune, of the record book wherein is writ the history of
æons.
Through the dazzle of the sun the sea of mountains re-appears,
a flowing tide of purple billows growing more ethereally blue in the
distance until they seem but the azure shadow of heaven. And far
beneath in the deep, dark gorge, cool with perpetual shade, flanked
by mighty mountain walls, are the polished jade-green lakes and the
fall, spinning its endless silver skein into the untroubled waters
below.
TRACK OF THE AVALANCHE
 CHAPTER X
THE TRACK OF THE AVALANCHE

T
HE trail to Avalanche Basin starts from the shores of Lake
McDonald and plunges almost immediately into forests
mysterious with primeval grandeur. Perhaps their denseness is
the reason for the wealth of rank-growing weed and shrub that
forms one vast screen beneath the spreading branches of pine,
tamarack and kingly cedar trees. Whether this is the cause or not,
the trail is richer in vegetation than any other that lays open the
secrets of the forest's heart. Tall, juicy-stalked bear-weed, devil's
walking cane, prickly with venomous thorns, slim, graceful stems of
wild hollyhock crowned with pale, lavender blossoms, and broad-
leafed thimble berry, bearing fragile, crapy-petalled flowers, weave
their verdure into a tangled mass. An occasional path crushed down
freshly shows where a bear has lately been, for these lavish brakes
are a haunt of the three varieties that dwell in the surrounding
mountains—the black, the brown and the silver tip, or grizzly.
Strange sounds come up out of the silence, borne through dim, dark
vistas where shy things peep and dry twigs snap under careful,
stealthy tread. A woodpecker drums resonantly on the bole of a
tree; shrill, elfin music quavers with reedy sweetness from the
security of dense thickets. A haunting spell steals over the heart and
turns the mind to thoughts of sirens, water sprites, and Piping Pan,
for in spite of generations of culture, somewhat of that ancient
worship of the Wild is revived in us when we are in the virgin woods.
The hypnotic charm of the great silence and solitude possesses us
and there comes a feeling as of memory of half-forgotten things
lived in a dream,—or was it reality? The inarticulate voices of the
past come calling in sylvan melody out of the closed lips of the
centuries, re-awakening the life of our forebears and revealing to us
a fleeting glimpse of something which we cannot define or
understand. In this spell of the wilderness we not only feel the
emotion of young world-life and race-childhood, but that of our own
more personal childhood when the pursuit of a butterfly or a flower
winged our feet and warmed our hearts. It may be the scent of a
familiar shrub, the flight of a bird, or even the shimmer of dew that
brings us afresh, for a moment, that gaily painted memory which the
years may dim but never quite obliterate.
The trail is dark with shadow,—the awe of the woods,—roofed
with boughs and so still that we seem to hear the breathing of the
trees. A sudden turn unfolds a little lake, bright with a living pattern
of lily-pads, bursting buds and golden water-lilies. Through a rift in
the pines the distant mountains appear; then the green tide of
branches flows together and there is nothing but silence and shadow
and the forest. The woods deepen. Low, bushy maples grow among
the pines, Colorado spruce sheds its silver sheen amidst the more
somber foliage, and towering high above the loftiest pines and
tamaracks, of magnificent circumference and sweep of limb, are the
cedars, the Lords of the Forest. Off to one side of the trail, among
the thick-sown trees, is a giant boulder completely covered with
moss, a throne fit for Pan. The pines around it are of goodly size, yet
they sprang and grew, perhaps centuries after that huge stone came
hurtling downward in a great avalanche, or was borne from the
mountain tops by the slow progress of a glacier.
Again the forest pageant changes. There are groves of pine
stricken with hoary age, bearded like patriarchs with long, pendent
streamers of colourless moss; then comes a young growth of pine,
fore-doomed to early death which already shows in the bronze of
premature decay. It is a beautiful spot, nevertheless, balsam-sweet
and strewn with needles that nurture violets of yellow and purple,
twin flowers and Queen's Cups.
 There is a sound like wind among the trees though not a branch
stirs, and presently there bursts into view a sight of wild,
exhilarating grandeur. A swift, tumultuous stream rushing down a
steep, narrow channel, clean-cut as a sabre stroke, dashes headlong
into a rainbow-ridden fall. The volume of water is churned into a
passion of swirling foam that flings its light mist heavenward to
descend again in rain. Ferny, mist-fed, moss-grown banks slope
gently to the declivity and over smooth, emerald cushions, lacy leaf
and trailing boughs, tiny, crystal drops, glinting prismatic hues,
tremble and pass away. The air is very sweet with a new and
unfamiliar fragrance, and amidst the moss, half hidden beneath
grosser leaf and protruding root, is a flower, the loveliest of all the
lovely woodland host. It is a small, snowy blossom of five petals and
a golden heart, growing on a slender stem from a cluster of glossy,
earth-clinging leaves, and as though to hide its chaste, shy beauty,
the modest flower turns its face downward towards the ground. Its
scent is strong and heavy like that of the magnolia. The guide, who
travels the mountains over from the earliest budding to the ultimate
passing of the flowers, has never seen this stranger blossom before,
and we find it on no other trail. It was unknown, unnamed, so we
call it the Star of the Mountains and leave it blooming in the secrecy
of that elfin dell.
Above the thunder of the fall sounds a slight, shrill bird note and
through the clouds of spray darts a little brown bird, dipping almost
into the boiling current, rising upward with a graceful swell and a
wild, free lilt, perching finally on a tiny point of rock just over the
shock and roar of the flood. This strange little winged sprite is a
water-ouzel who makes her home and raises her young upon these
insecure, spray-drenched walls, with the water-challenge pealing its
menace and breathing its chill on her nest. She and her kind haunt
the lonely mountain creeks and rivers, seeking some fall or cataract
that flings its spray and sings its song to the silent, ice-imprisoned
world. Once the mating season is over and the young are fledged,
each bird takes its solitary flight and becomes a veritable spirit of the
woodland streams.
 The dense forests become broken and sheer cliffs rise to
stupendous heights. Upon their sharp and slender pinnacles wild
goat and bighorn sheep dwell, and in passing we see a goat so far
away on those dizzy steeps that he seems the merest patch of
white. Through this gorge, between the mountains, are deep hewn
furrows where year after year, century after century, the burden of
ice from the peaks descends in avalanches. In the Spring when the
first thaw begins, a deafening roar like a cannonade heralds the
furious onslaught of ice and snow. At such times the Avalanche Trail
is a dangerous way to travel, and even now a distant booming
reminds us that the mountain forces are never idle, that in their
serenity there is force, in their mystery there is still the energy of
creation.
Through this narrow passage between overhanging crags, the
trail continues until, bearing upward, it suddenly crosses a pretty,
milky-hued stream, and thence to a hill-side overlooking a sheet of
water opaque and pearly white, in a setting of dark-browed woods.
It is Avalanche Lake. The water is perfectly calm, not a breath of air
rustles the slightest leaf, but there is no reflection of throbbing, blue
sky, of green woods or purple mountains—it does not thrill to the
passion of the Summer, flash back azure and gold and picture in its
responsive heart the glories of earth and heaven. Because of this, it
is different from all the other lakes of these mountains and the shell-
like whiteness of its surface, pallidly beautiful as a great pearl, has a
peculiar beauty none the less striking for its strangeness. The cause
of the milkiness of these waters seems at first without satisfactory
explanation, but as we examine them more closely we see that they
are charged with infinite multitudes of tiny air bubbles, and every
stream that feeds the lake, having fallen from enormous heights, is
likewise full of infinitesimal air beads. On the other hand, some
contend that the water, pouring down from the glacier is white with
particles of finely pulverized rock.
Pushing straight past the lake, through almost impenetrable
thickets of whipping willows that fight like live things to guard from
vandal footsteps what lies beyond, the journey reaches its climax in
Avalanche Basin. There, in that vast amphitheatre sculptured from
the living rock by glaciers, carved and scarred by innumerable
avalanches descending through the ages, overhung by the Piegan
ice fields, six silver streams leap the full height of the great rock
walls. The falls seem to melt away before they touch the reality of
earth, veritable spirits, born of the snowdrift and the sun; white
ghosts spending themselves in spray to reascend into the clouds.

O n the Trail to Mt. Lincoln

A rich growth of green grass, coloured with broad splashes of

Indian Paint Brush, covers the sloping floor of the basin. Standing on
its extreme elevation upon a platform of rock, and thence
overlooking the country that lies ahead, the scene is one of uplifting
majesty. Below, within the sombre circle of the pines, is the lake,
palely fair as a white sea shell or a milk opal whose latent colours
never quite shine forth from its cloudy depths. Farther still, is the
gorge, opening like a gateway into the region of the avalanche, and
farther still, is Heaven's Peak, mingling with the cloudless sky. The
strata on these mountains laid bare as though but yesterday they
were rent asunder, flow in undulating ribbons of colour varying from
red-violet to dull, antique gold. But between the quivering sky of
Summer and the warm, flower-sown earth, is a ghostly tide of
purple haze, an amethystine shadow which touches every rock and
tree and peak with magical illusion. And through that veil, as
through enchantment, each rock, each tree, each peak is
transfigured and for a brief hour is given a semblance of the divine.
The gorge is filled with flowing purple, the glorified gateway might
be Heaven's Gate, even as the dominant mountain, royal in the
thickening blue distance, is Heaven's Peak.
Here the sordid world seems to melt away; the sunshine has got
into our blood and the transfiguring haze has penetrated even to our
hearts. We seem so intimately a part of this mighty, primeval place
where the infinity of the past and the infinity of the future are
married in one great mystery, that we dare to listen for secrets of
the one from the chant of the falls; to lift the veil of circumventing
blue and peer into the other. So, standing upon that rock platform,
from the reality of the present we speed our souls into the ideality of
Time's poles. Though the song of the water-voices that have sung
æons, rings in our ears, and the living letter of the world-book is
shown in the mountain's open page, we may not know the portent
of either message. And though we gaze with seeking vision through
the shadow into the ultimate blue above, the haze draws its
protecting garment thicker, closer about the treasure-house of
Nature, and the sun darts amber lances earthward to blind aspiring
eyes. So we pass humbly upon our way, the water-voices singing in
our ears, the arch of Heaven trailing its garment over earth, still
guarding the riddle of the future in its azure keep.
INDIAN SUMMER
 CHAPTER XI
INDIAN SUMMER

A
FTER the Summer's ripe maturity has vanished with the first
autumnal storm, there steals over the world a magical
Presence. It has no place in the almanac; it comes with a
flooding of amber light and a deepening of amethyst haze; it plays
like a passing smile on the face of the universe and like one,
vanishes with the stern rebuff of the wintry blast. What jugglery the
sun and earth and the four winds of heaven have wrought no mortal
man can tell, but certainly by some divine alchemy the deadening
blight is turned into gold, and upon the lap of the world there lies,
instead of the appointed Fall, a changeling season, the faery-child of
Nature, illusive, fleeting as a flock of yellow butterflies, a shimmer of
radiant wings—the Indian Summer!
The whole earth is under the spell of the mad, sweet witchery.
The forests are decked in a gay masquerade, too glorious to be real,
and our own sober senses are half-mastered by the delusion that the
dead Summer is come to life again. In open places where the fingers
of the sun still warm the moist ground, absent-minded bluebells,
strawberries and yellow violets bloom on forgetful that they should
already be taking their winter's rest. And it is strange with what
pleasure we seize upon these fragile blossom-friends; with what
childish joy we caress their pale petals so soon to be laid low. Yet in
the warm air lurks a hidden sting, the bittersweet of sun and frost;
in the very effulgence of life is the foreshadowing of death. Already
on the heights streamers of cloud gather, leaving in their wake the
dazzle of fresh snow. And beneath these low-streaming clouds,
slanting earthward in broad, down-pouring rays, is a pure white light
upon the mountains. The light on the mountains! What a revelation
it is! The windows of heaven are flung open and the celestial beams
of Paradise illumine God's Cathedral Domes, the peaks, for a brief
space before sky-wrought vestments of snow cover the altar of His
Sanctuaries.
The trails of yesterday are barred. For prudence sake we must
keep to the low country or risk the fate of being "snowed in."
Therefore we choose the Kintla Road and Camas Creek, where a
large band of moose roams in the forest solitudes, hoping to reach
Quartz Lakes near the Canadian line before we shall be driven back
by the cold. The pine-sweet air fills us with the very spirit of the
woods as we strike out over the gilded trail through forests
transfigured into a welter of gorgeous hues, past deep-cleft ravines
purple as the heart of a violet, to dim lilac mountains that melt into
the blue. What is it that is mystical, spiritual, if you will, in this colour
of violet? It is not like the robust, tangible green of the trees, the
definite reality of the flowers' multi-coloured petals. We cannot lay
our hands upon it any more than we can grasp a sunbeam, for like
hope deferred, it lies forever beyond our reach. We see it unwind its
royal haze through gorge and forest; we watch it fade into pale
lavender on the ultimate pinnacles of the range, but if we follow it
what do we find? Mere yawning cleft or greenwood grove or jagged
strata of dull rock. Where is the subtle violet, the dim dream
lavender? Fled as subtly as the shadow of a wing! Perhaps it is a
shadow of the divine, the soul-essence common to man and the
flower at his feet, the dumb, stone mountains, the living air and the
heaven that embraces all in its enduring keep.
We pass into the deep, unbroken shadow of virgin woods where
bushes burn with crimson rosehips, the thimbleberry shines in its
autumn garb of yellow, the tamarack gleams golden among its
somber brethren, the pines, and strange, bright shrubs set us
forever guessing. We emerge into a billowing field of wild hay,
fringed with trees, above which we can see the metallic sharpness of
the mountains. Shining over all impartially, shedding its glory upon
our souls, is the dominant sun whose broad rays break into a mist of
ruddy gold. Again we dip into eternal shadow, the horses' hoofs
sound with a dull cluck as they sink in and are lifted from the soft
mold. Often we are startled by the sudden whirr of wings as
frightened grouse fly to shelter. Fungus thrusts evil, flame-coloured
tongues from the damp, sweet soil and a marvelous variety of moss
and lichen trace their patterns on logs, tree stumps and upon the
wind-thrown forest trees that toss their gnarled roots high above our
heads in an agony of everlasting despair. We splash through Dutch
Creek, Camas Creek and many another, and as we pause to eat a
frugal midday meal on the banks of one of these, we find upon a
trailing limb, a dying butterfly. Poor little sprite of yesterday! Its
bright wings palpitate feebly and it suffers us to take it in our hands
without making an effort to escape. The last of its gay brethren, the
blossom-lovers, its hour is come and with its final strength it has
fluttered to this friendly leaf to die. So, very gently we put it back
upon its chosen resting place, leaving it to join ghostly bright winged
flocks in the sunshine of some immortal Arcady.
From a high ridge which falls away abruptly into a water-hewn
declivity, we look through broad, open vistas far below at the North
Fork of the Flathead River. The stream takes its way between banks
of fine gray pebbles, parting now over a sandy bar in slender green
ribbons, then uniting in one broad current, again separating to curl
in white foam-frills around a boulder or little island. Mild and limpid
as the river now appears there is evidence of its flood-tide fury in
uprooted trees and livid scars along its banks. Working silently and
secretly near the water's edge is a beaver. We can scarcely
distinguish him as he toils patiently, bringing to our minds the old
Selish legend that the beavers are a fallen tribe of Indians, doomed
by the Great Spirit to expiate an ancient wrong by constant labor in
their present shape. But some day after the appointed penance, the
Indians believe that the beavers will resume the form of men and
come into their own again.
For two days we ride farther and farther into the wilderness,
camping by night and taking up the trail with the early dawn. And as
we penetrate deeper into the wild the pageant changes only to
become more sublime. Clumps of slenderly graceful silver poplars
with gray, satin-smooth boles and branches that burst into a shower
of golden leaves, shed glory upon our way. Dense woods of yellow
pine whose giant trunks hold all the shades of faded rose, and
silvery-green Colorado spruce overshadow us and once we find
ourselves in a grove of yellow tamarack hung with streamers of
black moss. Years upon years ago a forest fire whose fury was
nearly spent had scorched these trees with its hot breath, changing
the feathery moss into flowing streamers of black—veritable
mourning weeds—which contrast sharply with the golden foliage.
Even now it is easy to fancy that the fire still burns and each tall
tamarack is a pillar of living flame.
The nights are no less wonderful than the days. The melon-
coloured harvest moon floats high in the blue-black heavens,
touching the priestly trees with its white rays. We sit beside our
camp fire listening to the crackle of dry twigs beneath a cautious
tread, the occasional whistle of a stag and the ominous note of an
owl hooting among the pines. Sometimes we fancy that green and
amber eyes burn the darkness, and we cling close, close to the
primal birthright of the race—the flaming brand—which raises its
bright barrier now as in the age of stone, between mankind and the
predatory beasts of the wild. The wooded hosts seem to press down
with stifling persistence upon us and an indefinable terror creeps
into our hearts, the inherent fear of man, the atom, of Nature, the
fathomless, the unknown.
As these nights wear on and we lie upon our couches of fragrant
cedar boughs, up out of the gulf of silence the lean-flanked coyotes
howl to the moon, and later still, when the pale disc dips beneath
the horizon and the shrouded secrecy of before-dawn steals, like a
timid ghost, out of the Infinite, the trees find tongue and murmur
together though there is no wind and the stream sings with a music
as of hidden bells. Strange, elfin sounds, the merest echo of a
whisper thrill out of the quiet and sigh into silence again. A faint
patter-patter as of falling thistledown is heard constantly, insistently,
inevitably. Can it be the beat of gossamer wings, the trip of faery
feet as the woodland sprites hang the grass, the leaves, the finest-
spun thread of cobweb with beads of dew, and trim the dark pines,
like Christmas trees, with tinsel frost?
Truly the pale morning light breaks upon a transformed and
enchanted world. Silver filigree adorns the most commonplace limb
and twig. Each pine needle twinkles with a gem giving forth
rainbow-hued rays beneath the first steel-cold beams of the sun.
The thorn-apple, whose wine-red branches are furred with a white
beard, is etherealized into delicate pastel shades of lavender and
mauve by a film of hoar frost. Ragged streamers of fantastic mist-
shapes rise and float heavily through the moist air, obscuring, then
revealing stretches of stream-laced woods and finally rolling away in
lessening vapour into the lingering dusk of ravines. There is a mighty
scene-shifting of Nature in progress. The night phantoms, the
colourless dawn-shapes are hurried off, while the sun, riding high in
the deepening blue, touches stream and tree and peak with the
illumination of the new day.
As we wander about breathing the balsam sweetness of the
pine-breath of the new dawn, we make curiously interesting
discoveries. By an unfortunate accident we roll a hollow log over and
uncover a squirrel's winter larder of small pine cones, and at the
same time we hear above our heads, in trees so lofty that we cannot
penetrate the dense canopy of interlocked limb, the domestic
troubles of a pair of these contentious little forest folk. In high treble
voices they quarrel and dispute in a perfect hysteria of rage. Upon
the damp trail near camp we find large, cloven hoof prints too big
for those of a deer, so probably our mysterious visitor of the evening
before was no less a personage than a lordly moose.
We linger on heedlessly, much the same as the absent-minded
flowers, clinging as desperately to the woodland as the dying
butterfly, deceiving ourselves into the half-belief that Winter is far
away. The air is still warm and the light shines on the mountains.
And that light lures us on by its thrall to higher altitudes. Down the
gorges the snow gathers in deepening drifts and the utmost peaks
are white as carven ivory. Still we resolve to make one brave dash
for the Quartz Lakes, set one above the other in a chain among
sheltering cañons and flanking cliffs. Under the inspiration of the
camp fire we discuss the morrow's journey. How splendid it will be to
race with the sun; to dare the sudden blizzard that might cut off our
retreat, for one brief glimpse of that Upper World we have grown to
love with a passion akin to madness. But even as we speak a
shadow falls, and looking upward we see that a gray moth-wing of
cloud hides the moon. Surely it is a passing vapour, the merest mist-
breath exhaled by the languid night. But no! darker and heavier it
unrolls. Wraith shapes glide out from the black mass until the stars
are dead and the deep blue dome of heaven is shrouded by an
impenetrable pall. That night the heavy rain drops beat a tattoo on
the tent and the mournful pines weep the sorrow of ages.
Undaunted we take up the trail, assuring ourselves that soon the
fickle weather will be fair again. Occasionally a patch of clear blue
shows through the broken flock of hurrying clouds and a wan sun
ray steals down for a moment to kiss the woods goodbye. The
forests are already drenched and each bough that strikes us pours
upon us a little flood of rain. The trees line up in somber walls and
as the storm settles into a steady downpour, between their dark
fringes flows a narrow, ashen stream of sky. Through the brooding
shadow tamaracks kindle, silver poplars huddle together with
quivering aureoles of gold, and the austere dusk beneath their
boughs is lighted with yellow-leafed thimbleberry, glowing like
sunbeams. It seems as though the foliage of those receptive trees
and shrubs has absorbed the summer sun to give it forth again
when the world should be cloaked in shadow. So complete is the
illusion that oftentimes, as a shaft of light gleams through the tree
tops, we cry exultantly:
"The sun is shining!"
In another second we see that it is but the tamaracks burning
like tall, yellow candles through the autumnal gloom, shedding their
blessed gift of light to cheer us on our way.
When we gain the lower Quartz Lake, a deep green sheet of
water bordered by wooded shores, the heavy clouds drag low and a
rainbow arches the lake. We halt, uncertain, raising our eyes
questioningly to the heights beyond that frown blackly through the
tattered tapestry of the clouds. The mountains are angry! Very
reluctantly, sorrowfully, we turn to retrace our steps, thinking of
future seasons of sun and warmth and other quests of the sublime
that shall end in triumph. At each gust the shearing wind despoils
the silver poplars of their crowns until the naked branches leap
wildly in a fantastic dance of death.
The changeling season, the faery-child of Nature has fled as
mysteriously as it came—fled like a flock of yellow butterflies into
some ethereal region to await its perennial resurrection. Dull Autumn
settles drab as a moth upon the saddened world and the light has
died from the mountains.
 Transcriber's Notes:
Simple typographical errors were corrected.
Punctuation and spelling were made consistent when
a predominant preference was found in this book;
otherwise they were not changed.
This book uses both "leggins" and "leggings".
Reference to page 90 in the List of Illustrations
should be to page 116.
Page 206: "complete, In Maximilian's" is printed with
a comma in the book and unchanged here.
Cover created by Transcriber, using a photograph
from the source of this eBook, and placed into the Public
Domain.
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