CHAPTKR XV. 

 DAWN AND DARK 



It is a very early train and high altitude nights 

 are apt to be frosty, but we take it nevertheless so 

 that we may have a long day in the border city. 

 And after it is over — the aggravation of arising in 

 the dark and eating a farcical breakfast by lamp- 

 light — we are glad about that senselessly planned 

 train. For we have beholden with eyes wide open 

 the dawn and sunrise glories of earth and sky, both 

 more daring and esoteric in winter than in summer. 



We are also glad that a neighbor drives us to 

 the station thus permitting us to snuggle into our 

 furs while he pilots his ponies along the deserted 

 roads. Scarcely do we speak. Speech seems out 

 of place in this weird, unknown Valley of the Sha- 

 dow. Once a voice cries softly, as if fearing to 

 wake a sleeping child, "Look!" And — "Do you re- 

 member the sunset last night?" murmurs another. 

 We all remember, common as those nightly pag- 

 eants are. 



For above the Organ Peaks lingers yet the ros- 

 eate reflection of that sunset, though now at dawn 

 it is as if a full, wet brush of crimson lake had been 

 drawn lightly over a background of greenish blue — 

 the greener the colder. The eastern sky is thus ten- 

 derly dyed, whilst lower down behind the moun- 

 tain range smoulder the ashes of a gigantic bonfire. 



