THE MOUNTAIN TRAIL 



or no creed at all, under the shelter 

 of some majestic yellow pine with 

 the great cliffs towering above us. 

 The old hymns, led by the violin, 

 the simple prayer, the Twenty- 

 third Psalm repeated together, the 

 sermon touched with a sense of 

 the Divine presence all around us 

 these things all help to make a 

 summer in the Sierra more than 

 a physical refreshment alone. 



And so by day we live in fellow- 

 ship with the trees, ever calm, dig- 

 nified, serene, and with the great 

 cliffs in whose presence we feel so 

 slight and so transitory. And then 

 at night, when the camp-fire has 

 died away and a hush has settled 

 down across the hills, we lie in our 

 sleeping bags and, before we close 

 our eyes, look straight up at the 

 innumerable and silent stars, and 

 learn anew what it may mean to 

 pray. 



[12] 



