frets. There is commerce on
the sea, and the people who live near it are fretful, greedy,
grasping. The mountains have no troubles; they have no commerce.
The dwellers of the mountains are calm and unfretted.

And on the broad shoulders of the mountains once more was cast
the burden of the young man's troubles, and once more he walked
deep into the peace of the big hills. And the mountains smiled
not, neither wept, but gravely and kindly folded over, about,
behind, the gray mantle of the canyon walls, and locked fast
doors of adamant against all following, and swept a pitying hand
of shadow, and breathed that wondrous unsyllabled voice of
comfort which any mountain-goer knows. Ay! the goodness of such
strength! Up by the clean snow; over the big rocks; by the
lace-work stream where the trout are--why, it's all come again!
That was the clink made by a passing deer. That was the touch of
the green balsam--smell it, now! And there comes the mist,
folding down the top; and there is the crash of the thunder; and
this is the rush of the rain; and this is the warm yellow sun
over it all--O, Singing Mouse, Singing Mouse!...

[Illustration]

Back again, now, by some impulse of the dog which hasn't had any
day. It is winter now, I remember, Singing Mouse, and I am
walking by the shore of the great Inland Seas. There is snow on
the ground. The trees look black in contrast as you gaze up from
the beach against the high bank. It is cold. It is dark. There
is a shiver in the air. There are icicles in the sky. Something
is flying through the trees, but silent as if it came out of a
grave. I have been walking, I know. I have walked a million
miles, and I'm tired. My legs are stiff, and my legging has
frozen fast to my overshoe; I remember that. And so I sit
down--right here, you know--and look out over the lake--just
over there, you see. The ice reaches out from the shore into the
lake a long way; and it is covered with snow, and looks white.
I can follow that white glimmer in a long, long curve to the
right--twenty miles or more, maybe. Yes, it is cold. But ah!
what is that out there, and what is it doing? It is setting all
the long white curves of ice afire. It is throwing down hammered
silver in a broad path, out there on the water. Those are not
ripples. That is silver! There will be angels walking on that
pathway before long! That is not the moon coming up over the
lake! It is the swinging open, by some careless angel's
mi