FOUNTAINS AND STREAMS 255 



ting up in time for the sunset, and a quick, 

 sparkling home-going beneath the stars. But I 

 was not to get top views of any sort that day ; 

 for deep trampling near the canon head, where 

 the snow was strained, started an avalanche, and 

 I was swished back down to the foot of the 

 canon as if by enchantment. The plodding, 

 wallowing ascent of about a mile had taken all 

 day, the undoing descent perhaps a minute. 

 When the snow suddenly gave way, I instinc- 

 tively threw myself on my back and spread my 

 arms, to try to keep from sinking. Fortunately, 

 though the grade of the canon was steep, it was 

 not interrupted by step levels or precipices big 

 enough to cause outbounding or free plunging. 

 On no part of the rush was I buried. I was only 

 moderately imbedded on the surface or a little 

 below it, and covered with a hissing back-stream- 

 ing veil of dusty snow particles ; and as the 

 whole mass beneath or about me joined in the 

 flight I felt no friction, though tossed here and 

 there, and lurched from side to side. And when 

 the torrent swedged and came to rest, I found 

 myself on the top of the crumpled pile, without 

 a single bruise or scar. Hawthorne says that 

 steam has spiritualized travel, notwithstanding 

 the smoke, friction, smells, and clatter of boat 

 and rail riding. This flight in a milky way of 

 snow flowers was the most spiritual of all my 

 travels ; and, after many years, the mere thought 

 of it is still an exhilaration. 



