prefacp: ix 



It matters not at what hour one goes to the mountains, 

 whether in the amethyst dawn, when the golden gates of sun- 

 rise fall ajar and the first faint rustle of the leaves stirs the 

 dreaming world to consciousness, dispersing mists and dew ; 

 in the brilliant noontide, when life marches on with all her 

 banners unfurled, and every plant is budding and blowing as 

 the sap runs freely and the sun's effulgent rays turn every- 

 thing to glory ; or in the amber evening, when purple shadows 

 steal with phantom feet from cliff to cliff, and down in the 

 depths of the forest the gentle dusk drops tears that spangle 

 leaf and bloom, as God lights the star-lamps of His high 

 heaven and puts out the day. 



Even when we listen to the rhythm of the rain all is beau- 

 tiful, for the flowers that greeted the dawn with opal hearts 

 wide-blown, that at noontide were found with 



" Each affluent petal outstretched and uncurled 

 To the glory and gladness and shine of the world, " 



and that at evening offered up sweetest fragrance in their 

 chalice-cups, are given a new joy and beauty by the cool clear 

 showers from above. 



" The paths, the woods, the heavens, the hills. 

 Are not a world today, 

 But just a place God made for us 

 In which to play." 



So we wander in search of the mountain wild flowers, 

 following the trails that lead to the alpine meadows, listening 

 to the bird -songs as we pass, wrapt in the peace of the perfect 

 hills, while all about us the infinite beauty of things created, 

 the magic of the summer skies, the strength of the far-flung 

 bastions, the purity of the eternal snows, and the glory of the 

 flowers that bloom above the clouds bid us remember that 

 we are walking 



" In the P'reedom of the Garden Wild " 

 with 



" God of the open Air." 



