COMMENTS AND STORIES 



The stars are the glory of a Montana night. At no time 

 perhaps are the heavens so terribly splendid as in the still hours 

 between the after-midnight and the false dawn — the primam 

 luce of Caesar. To see the boreal splendor of the north, the 

 coldly ha^y fire of the Milky Way over head, and in the south 

 Orion striding the sky, followed by his dogs in processional glory, 

 the dog star blazing like a nocturnal but far-off sun, brings 

 keenly to mind the dignity of George Sterling's mighty verse: 



O armies of eternal night, 



How flame your guidons on the dark 

 Silent we turn from Time to mark 



What final orders sway your might. 



Cold from colossal ramparts gleam 



From their insuperable posts 



The seven princes of the hosts 

 Who guard the holy north supreme. 



What music from Capella runs 



How hold the Pleiades their bond 



How storms the hidden war beyond 

 Orion's dreadful sword of suns. 



• • • • 



O Night, what legions serve thy wars 



Lol thy terrific battle line 



The rayless bulk, the blazing Sign 

 The leagued infinity of stars 1 



So much, at least, may one get for reward of getting up to 

 tend campfire at four o'clock of a frosty morning, even though 

 for that break in the after-sleep, the spreading fire of the dawn 

 be foregone for later slumber. The expectation of this was not 

 realized, for the camp was aroused before sunrise, and settled 

 to breakfast just as the sun showed, a pale gold disk through 

 the frosty haze, in the opening of the Madison gap. 



Before the sun, the mist that at dawn had settled on the 

 water began to roll and lift. Distant islets began to show, and 

 on the mirror-like water, whitely still under the hanging vapor, 



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