The Commonplace 47 



slopes. It was hardly light enough to enable 

 us to pick our way. We were as two pygmies, 

 so titanic was the forest. The trails led us up 

 and up, under pitchy boughs becoming fra- 

 grant, over needle-strewn floors still heavy with 

 darkness, disclosing glimpses now and then of 

 gray light showing eastward between the boles. 

 Suddenly the forest stopped, and we found our- 

 selves on the crest of a great ridge : and sheer 

 before us stood the great cone of Shasta, cold 

 and gray and silent, floating on a sea of dark- 

 ness from which even the highest tree crowns 

 did not emerge. Scarcely had we spoken in 

 the course of our ascent, and now words would 

 be sacrilege. Almost automatically we dis- 

 mounted, letting the reins fall over the horses' 

 necks, and removed our hats. The horses 

 stood, and dropped their heads. Uncovered, 

 we sat ourselves on the dry leaves and waited. 



It was the morning of the creation. Out of 

 the pure stuff of nebulae the cone had just been 

 shaped and flung adrift until a world should be 

 created on which it might rest. The gray light 

 grew into white. Wrinkles and features grew 



