k to less than
half their real stature, and have nothing to say to one, as if not at home.
But it is fine to see how quickly they come to life and grow radiant and
communicative as soon as a band of white clouds come floating by. As if
shouting for joy, they seem to spring up to meet them in hearty salutation,
eager to touch them and beg their blessings. It is just in the midst of
these dull midday hours that the canon clouds are born.

A good storm-cloud full of lightning and rain on its way to its work on
a sunny desert day is a glorious object. Across the canon, opposite the
hotel, is a little tributary of the Colorado called Bright Angel Creek.
A fountain-cloud still better deserves the name "Angel of the Desert
Wells"--clad in bright plumage, carrying cool shade and living water to
countless animals and plants ready to perish, noble in form and gesture,
seeming able for anything, pouring life-giving, wonder-working floods from
its alabaster fountains, as if some sky-lake had broken. To every gulch
and gorge on its favorite ground is given a passionate torrent, roaring,
replying to the rejoicing lightning--stones, tons in weight, hurrying away
as if frightened, showing something of the way Grand Canon work is done.
Most of the fertile summer clouds of the canon are of this sort, massive,
swelling cumuli, growing rapidly, displaying delicious tones of purple and
gray in the hollows of their sun-beaten bosses, showering favored areas
of the heated landscape, and vanishing in an hour or two. Some, busy and
thoughtful-looking, glide with beautiful motion along the middle of the
canon in flocks, turning aside here and there, lingering as if studying
the needs of particular spots, exploring side-canons, peering into hollows
like birds seeking nest-places, or hovering aloft on outspread wings. They
scan all the red wilderness, dispensing their blessings of cool shadows
and rain where the need is the greatest, refreshing the rocks, their
offspring as well as the vegetation, continuing their sculpture, deepening
gorges and sharpening peaks. Sometimes, blending all together, they weave
a ceiling from rim to rim, perhaps opening a window here and there for
sunshine to stream through, suddenly lighting some palace or temple and
making it flare in the rain as if on fire.

Sometimes, as one sits gazing from a high, jutting promontory, the sky
all clear, showing not the slightest wisp or penciling, a bright band of
cumuli will app