THE STREETS OF THE MOUNTAINS 



country of the silver firs, I must go on 

 until I find white columbine. Around the 

 amphitheatres of the lake regions and above 

 them to the limit of perennial drifts they 

 gather flock-wise in splintered rock wastes. 

 The crowds of them, the airy spread of 

 sepals, the pale purity of the petal spurs, 

 the quivering swing of bloom, obsesses the 

 sense. One must learn to spare a little of 

 the pang of inexpressible beauty, not to 

 spend all one's purse in one shop. There 

 is always another year, and another. 



Lingering on in the alpine regions until 

 the first full snow, which is often before 

 the cessation of bloom, one goes down in 

 good company. First snows are soft and 

 clogging and make laborious paths. Then 

 it is the roving inhabitants range down to 

 the edge of the wood, below the limit of 

 early storms. Early winter and early 

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