and is willing to humor them. He must be a trail- 

 horse, sure-footed and not finicky about fording 

 mountain streams. If you do not come into some 

 renewed sense of freedom, if the solitude does 

 not speak to you, if you do not become better 

 acquainted with yourself, it is because you really 

 have not surrendered to the genius of the hills but 

 have come preoccupied with other and lesser 

 things. Thoreau did not so greatly exaggerate 

 when he said one must make his will and settle 

 his affairs before he was ready to walk. 



One does not tire of sauntering through the 

 mountains. They seem always to invite. Mystery 

 lurks in the ravines. There is no sound but the 

 distant tinkle of a cow-bell, which is pleasant 

 music. Over the ranges and the velvet folds of 

 the mesa the lights and shadows play like a passing 

 smile. 



Though the ideal eludes on a nearer view, we 

 nevertheless derive some larger sense of freedom 

 from personal contact with the range. The foot 

 must know the trail; and this association yields 

 that which no road can ever give — a good under- 

 standing with the mountain itself. As far as the 

 eye can see, neither fence, nor house, nor road; 



177 



