Off the Sierra Santa Cruz 



" I know not if 'mid meadow-lands 



Knee-deep in corn stands Viverols; 

 I know not if prosperity 

 Has robbed its life of poesy; 

 That could not be in Viverols, 

 They would not call it Viverols. 



" Perchance upon its terraced heights 

 The grapes grow purple in the sun ; 



Or down its wild untrodden crags, 



Its broken cliffs and frost-bit jags 

 The mountain-brooks unfettered run. 



" Perchance among the clouds it lies, 



'Mid vapors out from Dreamland blown; 

 Built up from vague remembrances, 

 That never yet had form in stone, 

 Its castles built of cloud alone." 



I have always had a Viverols in my mind; some fair 

 and beautiful spot always just ahead. I fully ex- 

 pected to find it in the Laurentides where the green 

 reaches of the mountains come down to the St. Law- 

 rence between Quebec and the Saguenay. Perhaps 

 you remember the deep and splendid blue tints that lie 

 like bars of tourmaline, or old Persian turquoise in 

 these valleys along shore. No deeper blue, no more 

 splendid tint ever met the human eye than these, but 

 as I advanced they slowly stole on and were always 

 just so far ahead, and then fell in behind, glowing, 

 inviting, realistic, unapproachable. 



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