SYCE’S ADVENTURE 301 
These purple hollows, these mighty undulations of the 
mountain woodland are not distinguishable during the day, 
even when a strong glass is used. But there is some quality 
in the morning light, some reflective play of mist and shadow, 
some illumination of deep spaces between the rocky walls: 
that, at that hour, help you to get some idea of the quite 
wonderful tumult of heaved-up mountain side, which makes 
up the whole forest-covered mass. 
Woodland wave crests, hiding profound hollows, show 
up momentarily in this tender light of the morning. The 
mountain valleys widen, the cafions deepen, and far above 
these terrible barriers to man’s approach, little unsuspected 
meadows appear, creeping near as they may to the stern 
barriers of rock and perpetual snow above them. 
This is my last morning, and I shall never see her again! 
I read over my poor scribblings and feel like tearing them up. 
What are words, unless indeed you are of the magic few who 
can conjure with them? And not one of that small band of 
immortals has seen what I am looking on. 
Kenia’s beauty has been hidden long, wrapped in her 
mists, some of the earliest explorers unknowingly passing 
herby. Greek poets have made Olympusimmortal. Many 
thousands who have never seen them, love Wordsworth’s 
borderland hills. With Matthew Arnold you breathe 
again the spicy air of Alpine pasture lands. Kenia awaits: 
her poet still. I can but hope that at some distant time a 
dark-skinned poet may arise from among those peoples 
who have gazed on her for ages, but who have never yet had. 
their day, to sing the beauties of this most glorious of all the: 
mountains of the plain. 
