nd places where we had to go down on our hands and knees to
crawl under logs. It was breathless work, but not at all dangerous or
difficult. Every step forward was also a step upward; and as we stopped
to rest for a moment, we could see already glimpses of the lake below
us. But at these I did not much care to look, for I think it is a pity
to spoil the surprise of a grand view by taking little snatches of it
beforehand. It is better to keep one's face set to the mountain, and
then, coming out from the dark forest upon the very summit, feel the
splendour of the outlook flash upon one like a revelation.

The character of the woods through which we were now passing was
entirely different from those of the lower levels. On these steep places
the birch and maple will not grow, or at least they occur but sparsely.
The higher slopes and sharp ridges of the mountains are always covered
with soft-wood timber. Spruce and hemlock and balsam strike their
roots among the rocks, and find a hidden nourishment. They stand close
together; thickets of small trees spring up among the large ones; from
year to year the great trunks are falling one across another, and the
undergrowth is thickening around them, until a spruce forest seems to be
almost impassable. The constant rain of needles and the crumbling of
the fallen trees form a rich, brown mould, into which the foot sinks
noiselessly. Wonderful beds of moss, many feet in thickness, and softer
than feathers, cover the rocks and roots. There are shadows never broken
by the sun, and dark, cool springs of icy water hidden away in the
crevices. You feel a sense of antiquity here which you can never feel
among the maples and birches. Longfellow was right when he filled his
forest primeval with "murmuring pines and hemlocks."

The higher one climbs, the darker and gloomier and more rugged the
vegetation becomes. The pine-trees soon cease to follow you; the
hemlocks disappear, and the balsams can go no farther. Only the hardy
spruce keeps on bravely, rough and stunted, with branches matted
together and pressed down flat by the weight of the winter's snow, until
finally, somewhere about the level of four thousand feet above the sea,
even this bold climber gives out, and the weather-beaten rocks of the
summit are clad only with mosses and Alpine plants.

Thus it is with mountains, as perhaps with men, a mark of superior
dignity to be naturally bald.

Ampersand, falling short by a thousand f