A WIND-SOWN GARDEN. 73 



of places which looked as if the whole mountain 

 had been violently rent asunder. 



But no emotion whatever, no beauty, no 

 sublimity even, can make me insensible to a 

 bird note. Just at the entrance to the Pillars 

 of Hercules, two towering walls of perpendicu- 

 lar rock that approach each other almost threat- 

 eningly, as if they would close up and crush 

 between them the rash mortal who dared to 

 penetrate farther, in that impressive spot, 

 while I lingered, half yielding to a mysterious 

 hesitation about entering the strange portal, a 

 bird song fell upon my ear. It was a plaintive 

 warble, that sounded far away up the stern 

 cliff above my head. It seemed impossible that 

 a bird could find a foothold, or be in any way 

 attracted by those bare walls, yet I turned my 

 eyes, and later my glass that way. 



At first nothing was to be seen save, part 

 way up the height, an exquisite bit of nature. 

 In a niche that might have been scooped out by 

 a mighty hand, where scarcely a ray of sunlight 

 could penetrate, and no human touch could 

 make or mar, were growing, and blooming luxu- 

 riantly, a golden columbine, Colorado's pride 

 and glory, a rosy star-shaped blossom unknown 

 to me, and a cluster of 



" Proud cyclamens on long, lithe stems that soar." 



When I could withdraw my eyes from this 



