first time I
now looked upon the mountain in whose shadows so many tragedies were to be enacted ; the most comely and perfect snow peak in America. Nearly a hundred miles away, it seemed in the pure, clear atmosphere of the mountains to be almost at hand. Above the woods, above the clouds, almost above the snow, it looked like the first approach of land to another world. Away across a grey sea of clouds that arose from the Klamat and Shasta rivers, the mountain stood, a solitary island ; white and flashing like a pyramid of silver! solemn, majestic and sublime! Lonely and cold and white. A cloud or two about his brow, sometimes resting there, then wreathed and coiled about, then blown like banners streaming in the wind.
I had lifted my hands to Mount Hood, uncovered my head, bowed down and felt unutterable things, loved, admired, adored, with all the strength of an impulsive and passionate young heart. But he who loves and worships naturally and freely, as all strong, true souls must and will do, loves that which is most magnificent and most lovable in his scope of vision. Hood is a magnificent idol ; is sufficient, if you do not see Shasta.
A grander or a lovelier object makes shipwreck of a former love. This is sadly so.
Jealousy is born of an instinctive knowledge of this truth. . . .
Hood is rugged, kingly, majestic, immortal ! But he is only the head and front of a well-raised family.
