the west. It casts a yellow glamor over the earth, a glamor not of joy, nor of pleasure, nor of happiness—but of peace.
The young poplar trees smile gently in the deathly still air. The sage brush and the tall grass take on a radiant quietness. The high hills of Montana, near and distant, appear tender and benign. All is peace—peace. I think of that beautiful old song:
"Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest
In thy bosom of shade."
In thy bosom of shade."
But I am too young yet to think of peace. It is not peace that I want. Peace is for forty and fifty. I am waiting for my Experience.
I am awaiting the coming of the Devil.
And now, just before twilight, after the sun has vanished over the edge, is the red, red line on the sky.
There will be days wild and stormy,
