50 The Mountaineer 



from the party below waiting coldly if not impatiently, 

 for the party above to get through using that responsi- 

 ble article, and '*I heard a voice, way up in the moun- 

 tain-top — tip top" was enthusiastically and frequently 

 illustrated in fact as well as in song. 



Even the gloves talked: "I'm Mollie's, whose are 

 you?" The buttons displayed stag's heads, the over- 

 alls were marked "Black Bears." The alpenstocks re- 

 cited histories as long as they were, burned in with 

 fire, if not with blood ; the hats bragged loudest of all, 

 "Olympus," "Mt. Baker," "Mt. Rainier." 



At this point, if at any, a che-cha-ko, who is in no 

 sense at all a tip-topper, should modestly pause. Not 

 for her the pains or glories of the summit, the invig- 

 orating comparisons and joyous congratulations. 



Recollections here become too personal, too numer- 

 ous to share. The humming-birds, the banks of heather, 

 the violets, and all the other flowers. The glacial Cas- 

 cades in the morning, the sunsets and heavens at night, 

 and always Mt. Rainier above us. These all are 

 "mountain voices calling softly to me." 



In the future when they speak again may all our 

 Mountaineers be able to answer: 



"I'm coming, I'm coming, 



And my heart is light and free, 

 I hear the mountain voices 

 Calling, softly to me." 



