the Matterhorn by the hill in the old home pas- 

 ture. 



I chanced to be on the summit of Mount 

 Washington when the tickle-bird-screamer ladies 

 arrived there. They came, as usual, with their 

 thoughts trailing the edges of the universe, and 

 climbed the mountain, as I knew they would, 

 on the crazy, snorting little engine, stepping at 

 once from the car into a world above the clouds. 

 Better that way than never to stand upon the 

 top at all. The railroad is a boon to the aged, 

 the weak-headed, and all with uncertain hearts. 

 But for the healthy, the vigorous, for all who 

 want to pray up there, the only road is the path 

 through the spruce to Hermit Lake, and up over 

 the Head Wall of Tuckerman's Ravine. 



There is no preparation for the summit like 

 the struggle through those narrow forest defiles 

 and the climb over the grim Head Wall, and, 

 just short of the peak, the sight of a tiny sand- 

 wort in the Alpine Garden on the edge of the 

 rent, rocky height. 



If infinite majesty rolls in upon the soul from 

 the mountain -peak, no less does infinite beauty 

 breathe from the little blossom plucked on our 

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