how slight is the covering that mother-earth has drawn over the bed-rock; lines of miniature cairns beckon along the calm and sunny cliffs; countless mossy nooks sheltered by overhanging rock and huge tree sentinels invite the loiterer to rest; up above in the sunshine, hundreds of stone-wrought couches upholstered with gray-green moss allure one. Up here one can gaze his fill at the grave, brooding Titan reigning supreme, outlined against the ultramarine sky, giving his majestic salutation alike to distant sea and to encircling plain.
Mute at first may be the Mountain Spirit. It has no words for the vagrant soul whose ears are plugged with earthly things. But to the weary heart which throws itself into those tender arms; to the inquiring and the puzzled; to the wistful and the sorrowful; to the eager and searching; and above all to the passionately loving,—to all such, and soon, "Speaking or mute its silence hath a tongue." To the mountain-lover the mystic spirit comes like an invisible presence,
