120 THE MOUNTAINS 



an hour, yes, wait two hours — the scene 

 has become a swift, riotous, multitudinous 

 pell-mell. Now look at the tops of those 

 elms! Notice how the numberless white 

 sprites crazily confuse the network of out- 

 lines; notice the chaste flecking of the 

 rough bark; notice how the color of the 

 bark seems to get richer in tint, and how 

 the tint tries to hold its own through all 

 the whirl of the flurry; notice the com- 

 plicated pattern of motion — its intricacy, 

 its oddity, and its vitality; notice the 

 throbbing play of the light in and through 

 the upper branches; notice how sky and 

 treetops gradually come together— how 

 they weirdly blend just as they do in the 

 gloaming. ... It is night now; the 

 ragged remnants of the storm are drift- 

 ing, "like shattered rigging from a fight 

 at sea" ; moon and stars are forcing their 

 faces through in splendor; the treetops 

 look weary and ghostly. . . . Let us wait 

 until the scene is motionless. ... A still 

 winter midnight after a long storm ! The 



