268 GREEN TRAILS AND UPLAND PASTURES 



shattered horizontals, with the emphasis now on one, 

 now on the other. Such complete chaos of lines breeds 

 restlessness, and on a dull day which takes out the colour, 

 actual depression. One of the most miserable days I ever 

 spent was under a cloud in the pocket canon which holds 

 Cracker Lake, in Glacier Park. The Divide soared up- 

 ward into the creeping gray roof with a tremendous, an 

 overwhelming vertical magnificence, but all around its 

 base were vast shale slides at an angle halfway between 

 vertical and horizontal, pitching into the flat lake, and 

 behind, through the canon mouth, was every con- 

 ceivable tilt and angle of rock and shale and forest. No 

 line predominated, since the top of the Divide was 

 buried in scud and could not take the eye up to the blue 

 above. You felt yourself in the heart of upheaved chaos. 

 Of all the individual lines that mountains achieve, 

 probably the most beautiful and potent is the dome. 

 The mood evoked by the dome is the grave, calm ac- 

 ceptance of infinity, and that corresponding sense of 

 mystery and wonder. Curiously enough, it is most 

 often the doming summit we hold in affection, too, per- 

 haps because of its benignity. It has such amplitude 

 of base, such easy lines of ascent, such an aspect of 

 monumental solidity, and such sheer beauty in its 

 sweeping curves, that it is almost invariably our 

 favourite among its fellows. At least, that is the case 

 with me. Moosilauke is my best loved mountain in the 

 White Hills of New Hampshire, and always seems to me 



