f forest sinking smoothly
towards the valleys, the deep hollows gathering purple shadows in their
bosoms, and the little foothills standing out in rounded promontories of
brighter green from the darker mass behind them.

Far to the east, the long comb of Twin Mountain extended itself back
into the untrodden wilderness. Mount Garfield lifted a clear-cut
pyramid through the translucent air. The huge bulk of Lafayette ascended
majestically in front of us, crowned with a rosy diadem of rocks. Eagle
Cliff and Bald Mountain stretched their line of scalloped peaks across
the entrance to the Notch. Beyond that shadowy vale, the swelling
summits of Cannon Mountain rolled away to meet the tumbling waves of
Kinsman, dominated by one loftier crested billow that seemed almost
ready to curl and break out of green silence into snowy foam. Far down
the sleeping Landaff valley the undulating dome of Moosilauke trembled
in the distant blue.

They were all ours, from crested cliff to wooded base. The solemn groves
of firs and spruces, the plumed sierras of lofty pines, the stately
pillared forests of birch and beech, the wild ravines, the tremulous
thickets of silvery poplar, the bare peaks with their wide outlooks, and
the cool vales resounding with the ceaseless song of little rivers,--we
knew and loved them all; they ministered peace and joy to us; they were
all ours, though we held no title deeds and our ownership had never been
recorded.

What is property, after all? The law says there are two kinds, real and
personal. But it seems to me that the only real property is that which
is truly personal, that which we take into our inner life and make our
own forever, by understanding and admiration and sympathy and love. This
is the only kind of possession that is worth anything.

A gallery of great paintings adorns the house of the Honourable Midas
Bond, and every year adds a new treasure to his collection. He knows
how much they cost him, and he keeps the run of the quotations at the
auction sales, congratulating himself as the price of the works of
his well-chosen artists rises in the scale, and the value of his art
treasures is enhanced. But why should he call them his? He is only their
custodian. He keeps them well varnished, and framed in gilt. But he
never passes through those gilded frames into the world of beauty that
lies behind the painted canvas. He knows nothing of those lovely places
from which the artist's soul and hand