swirled　and　tumbled　about　me。　An　unreasoning　resentment　flashed　through

me　at　this　ruthless　destruction　of　the　beauty　that　I　love。　But　there　is

no　anger；　no　resentment　in　nature。　The　air　is　equally　charged　with　the

odours　of　life　and　of　destruction；　for　death　equally　with　growth　forever

ministers　to　all…conquering　life。　The　sun　shines　as　ever；　and　the　winds

riot　through　the　newly　opened　spaces。　I　know　that　a　new　forest　will

spring　where　the　old　one　stood；　as　beautiful；　as　beneficent。

Touch　sensations　are　permanent　and　definite。　Odours　deviate　and　are

fugitive；　changing　in　their　shades；　degrees；　and　location。　There　is

something　else　in　odour　which　gives　me　a　sense　of　distance。　I　should

call　it　horizon……the　line　where　odour　and　fancy　meet　at　the　farthest

limit　of　scent。

Smell　gives　me　more　idea　than　touch　or　taste　of　the　manner　in　which

sight　and　hearing　probably　discharge　their　functions。　Touch　seems　to

reside　in　the　object　touched；　because　there　is　a　contact　of　surfaces。　In

smell　there　is　no　notion　of　relievo；　and　odour　seems　to　reside　not　in

the　object　smelt；　but　in　the　organ。　Since　I　smell　a　tree　at　a　distance；

it　is　prehensible　to　me　that　a　person　sees　it　without　touching　it。　I

am　not　puzzled　over　the　fact　that　he　receives　it　as　an　image　on　his

retina　without　relievo；　since　my　smell　perceives　the　tree　as　a　thin

sphere　with　no　fullness　or　content。　By　themselves；　odours　suggest

nothing。　I　must　learn　by　association　to　judge　from　them　of　distance；　of

place；　and　of　the　actions　or　the　surroundings　which　are　the　usual

occasions　for　them；　just　as　I　am　told　people　judge　from　colour；　light；

and　sound。