SUMMER DAYS AT MOUNT SHASTA 



the mountains, yet it is better than staying 

 below. Many still small voices will not be 

 heard in the noisy rush and din, suggestive of 

 going to the sky in a chariot of fire or a whirl 

 wind, as one is shot to the Shasta mark in a 

 booming palace-car cartridge; up the rocky 

 canon, skimming the foaming river, above the 

 level reaches, above the dashing spray fine 

 exhilarating translation, yet a pity to go so 

 fast in a blur, where so much might be seen 

 and enjoyed. 



The mountains are fountains not only of 

 rivers and fertile soil, but of men. Therefore 

 we are all, in some sense, mountaineers, and 

 going to the mountains is going home. Yet 

 how many are doomed to toil in town shadows 

 while the white mountains beckon all along 

 the horizon ! Up the canon to Shasta would be 

 a cure for all care. But many on arrival seem 

 at a loss to know what to do with themselves, 

 and seek shelter in the hotel, as if that were 

 the Shasta they had come for. Others never 

 leave the rail, content with the window views, 

 and cling to the comforts of the sleeping-car 

 like blind mice to their mothers. Many are 

 sick and have been dragged to the healing 

 wilderness unwillingly for body-good alone. 

 Were the parts of the human machine detach 

 able like Yankee inventions, how strange would 



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