A QUIET MORNING 209 



clad woods, more beautiful than words can 

 begin to tell ; and beyond them rise the 

 mountains : Moosilauke, far enough away to 

 be blue ; the shapely Kinsman range, at 

 whose long green slopes no man need tire of 

 looking ; rocky Lafayette, directly in front 

 of me ; Haystack, with its leaning knob ; 

 the sombre Twins and the more Alpine- 

 looking Washington, Jefferson, and Adams. 

 Farther to the north are the low hills of 

 Cleveland and Agassiz. A magnificent 

 horizon. Lafayette, Washington, Jefferson, 

 and Adams are still flecked with snow. 

 And over the mountains is the sky, with 

 high white clouds, cirrus and cumulus. I 

 look first at the mountains, then at the val- 

 ley, which is filled with sunlight as a cup 

 is filled with wine. The level foreground is 

 the essential thing. Without it the grand- 

 est of mountain prospects is never quite 

 complete. 



Swallows circle about me continually, a 

 phoebe calls at short intervals, and less often 

 I hear the sweet voice of a bluebird. Both 

 phoebe and bluebird are most delightfully 

 plentiful in all this fair mountain country. 



