Ski Running: An Impression 



273 



Even after all is said, you will never learn to be quick and facile 

 in strapping on your skis yourself, and skimming joyously over 

 the freshly packed snow, unless you have a real love of advent- 

 ure in your heart; unless you want to penetrate the winter's 

 silences and mingle with and vanish away into them, with the 

 hushed hope of stealthily tracking the mountain blue bird, or 

 maybe coming upon a rocky fortress, where you can plant your 

 skis endwise on the snowy threshold, climb upon its battlements 

 and there stretch out in the warm sunshine, listening for the 

 faintest stir of insect or wind. 



If you are intent upon all this ; if you are eager sometimes 

 to wander through an enchanted forest over which a fairy's 

 fog wand has cast a spell, and are impatient to be caught up 

 yourself into this soft and caressing web of mystery, then I 

 say to you, "Scribe and stay-at-home, 



Saint and sage, 



Out of your cage, 



Come out of your cage !" 



Put on your skis and go up to the mountain top. There 

 pause; gather yourself together in a crouching position, just 

 as a bird does before it leaps into the air ; then straighten out, 

 with equal scorn of your moorings, with life and freedom 

 tingling from your toes to the sparkle in your eyes, and you, 

 too, will fly over that white world, alighting gradually and up- 

 rightly (we hope). 



In any case, you have had the exhilaration of that wonder- 

 fully quick downward movement, and after you have gathered 

 yourself together again to reascend the slope, you have the 

 pleasure in the climb, of pausing to watch the changing clouds, 

 of speculating as to ''what is beyond that ridge," of noticing 

 the whispering trees, until you find yourself once more at the 

 top, ready and impatient to try again your ski wings. 



What a sad moment it is when the time comes to lay aside 

 those skis in the baggage car, and to steam down soberly and 

 leisurely from the heights to resume the routine of every-day 

 life. But it is only the train that moves slowly and cautiously. 

 Your soul, caged again, beats upon the windows of the Pull- 

 man car for fresh air and freedom, and still dreams of that 

 happy pilgrimage into the vast white stillness. 



