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light, and in the Uncompahgre district I had 

 many a moonlight ramble. I know what it is to be 

 alone on high peaks with the moon, and I have 

 felt the spell that holds the lonely wanderer when, 

 on a still night, he feels the wistful, tender touch 

 of the summer air, while the leaves whisper and 

 listen in the moonlight, and the moon-toned etch- 

 ings of the pines fall upon the magic forest floor. 

 One of the best moonlit times that I have 

 had in this region was during my last visit to it. 

 One October night I camped in a grass-plot in the 

 depths of a spruce forest. The white moon rose 

 grandly from behind the minareted mountain, 

 hesitated for a moment among the tree-spires, 

 then tranquilly floated up into space. It was a 

 still night. There was silence in the treetops. 

 The river near by faintly murmured in repose. 

 Everything was at rest. The grass-plot was full 

 of romantic light, and on its eastern margin was 

 an etching of spiry spruce. A dead and broken 

 tree on the edge of the grass-plot looked like a 

 weird prowler just out of the woods, and seemed 

 half-inclined to come out into the light and speak 

 to me. All was still. The moonlit mist clung fan- 



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