114 WITH EARTH AND SKY 
The morning came. A mid Indian summer 
morning. I need say no further word for such 
as love the Indian summer, as all poets do, and 
lesser poets like poetasters. We were on the 
summit of one mountain but not on the moun- 
tain summit. I like that distinction, for it is no 
hair-splitting. It is sonorous music. To crest 
a mountain has its overpowering revelation, but 
to top one mountain and have another mountain 
climbing on and up with lesser mountains and 
woodlands and valley-glimpses open before your 
eyes and climbing on to other scenes, “T’other 
mountain,” aye, heart, that is quintessential glad- 
ness. We see, but not all. There be other moun- 
tain heights still climbing and invitational and 
revelational. “You are come,” the other climb- 
ing mountain beckons, “not to the summit but 
to the summons. Come hither. I wait for ye. 
Haste not but come.” 
The valley which watched toward the moun- 
tain of the apple orchard in full fruit was hidden 
in the mist. I could see no whither. The fog 
filled the crevices in the hills or lazily turned 
over in their sleepy beds. They were in no haste 
to rise. Nor had I been but that my stay was 
brief in this paradise and I was unfamiliar with 
the unaccustomed spectacle and must be up 
and doing while it is apple-orchard-day, for the 
night cometh when I can see it no longer but 
must onward on the circle of my journey. 
The mists that held the valley save at tem- 
