THE STREETS OF THE MOUNTAINS 



it except the Douglas squirrel tells you 

 with his high, fluty chirrup from the 

 pines' aerial gloom — sign that some star 

 watcher has caught the first far glint of 

 the nearing sun. Whitney cries it from 

 his vantage tower; it flashes from Oppa- 

 pago to the front of Williamson ; LeConte 

 speeds it to the westering peaks. The 

 high rills wake and run, the birds begin. 

 But down three thousand feet in the 

 canon, where you stir the fire under the 

 cooking pot, it will not be day for an hour. 

 It goes on, the play of light across the 

 high places, rosy, purpling, tender, glint 

 and glow, thunder and windy flood, like 

 the grave, exulting talk of elders above a 

 merry game. 



Who shall say what another will find 

 most to his liking in the streets of the 

 mountains. As for me, once set above the 

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