SYCE'S ADVENTURE 30* 



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 canons 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 

 her by. Greek poets have made Olympus immortal. 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. 



