of pines. This is the haunt of the shooting-star 

 and the Alpine mertensia, delicate and exquisite 

 blossoms, wooed by fugitive sunbeams and by the 

 floating mist ; which dwell in a subdued and tem- 

 pered light amidst the Alpine silence, as in some 

 floral cloister. Such are the rare and beautiful 

 places of earth, which the mountain barriers 

 defend and the clouds veil, as if they cherished 

 here the last vestige of the fading youth and inno- 

 cence of the old world. 



There are days when the clouds shut down 

 upon the little valley, veiling it from mortal eyes. 

 The cliffs and buttes seem to float in air ; the trail 

 becomes a path to the clouds. You have only to 

 go up on some ridge, and the pinnacles, looming 

 in the fog, appear to be forlorn rocks in mid- 

 ocean. It is the isolation again of the sea and of 

 the desert. 



At such times one receives impressions from 

 the mountains which bring to mind the ocean, 

 as if these retained memories — as they still bear 

 traces — of the waters which gave them birth. 

 This relation, once so intimate, is now sundered 

 and only to be inferred. Where is the ancient 

 sea which mothered the Rockies? The desert is 



183 



