rise strangely, silently into the mellow haze of 

 autumn night. For a moment on the horizon it 

 paused to peep from behind a crag into a scat- 

 tered group of weird storm-beaten trees on a 

 ridge before me, then swiftly floated up into 

 lonely, misty space. Just before I lay down for 

 the night, I saw a cloud-form in the dim, low 

 distance that was creeping up into my moonlit 

 world of mountains. Other shadowy forms fol- 

 lowed it. A little past midnight I was awakened 

 by the rain falling gently, coldly upon my face. 

 As I stood shivering with my back to the fire, 

 there fell an occasional feathery flake of snow. 

 Had my snowshoes been with me, a different 

 lot of experiences would have followed. With 

 them I should have stayed in camp and watched 

 the filmy flakes form their beautiful white feath- 

 ery bog upon the earth, watched robes, rugs, 

 and drapery decorate rocks and cliffs, or the fir 

 trees come out in pointed, spearhead caps, or 

 the festoons form upon the limbs of dead and 

 lifeless trees, crumbling tree-ruins in the 

 midst of growing forest life. To be without food 

 or snowshoes in faraway mountain snows is 



225 



