During the long summer afternoon we sped onward through this
beautiful valley. Far down on the tracks below trains would go
scurrying by; now and then a slow freight would challenge our
competition; trainmen would look up curiously; occasionally an
engineer would sound a note of defiance or a blast of victory with
his whistle.

The distant river followed lazily along, winding hither and
thither through the lowland, now skirting the base of the hills,
now bending far to the other side as if resentful of such rude
obstructions to its once impetuous will.

Far across on the distant slopes we could see the cattle grazing,
and farther still tiny specks that were human beings like
ourselves moving upon the landscape. Nature's slightest effort
dwarfs man's mightiest achievements. That great railroad with its
many tracks and rushing trains seemed a child's plaything,--a
noisy, whirring, mechanical toy beside the lazy river; for did not
that placid, murmuring, meandering stream in days gone by hollow
out this valley? did not nature in moments of play rear those
hills and carve out those distant mountains? Compared with these
traces of giant handiwork, what are the works of man? just little
putterings for our own convenience, just little utilizations of
waste energies for our own purposes.

One should view nature with the setting sun. It may gratify a
bustling curiosity to see nature at her toilet, but that is the
part of a "Peeping Tom."

The hour of sunrise is the hour for work, it is the hour when
every living thing feels the impulse to do something. The birds do
not fly to the tree-tops to view the morning sun, the animals do
not rush forth from their lairs to watch the landscape lighten
with the morning's glow; no, all nature is refreshed and eager to
be doing, not seeing; acting, not thinking. Man is no exception to
this all-embracing rule; his innate being protests against
idleness; the most secret cells of his organization are charged to
overflowing with energy and demand relief in work.

Morning is not the hour for contemplation; but when evening comes,
as the sun sinks towards the west, and lengthening shadows make it
seem as if all nature were stretching herself in repose, then do
we love to rest and contemplate the rich loveliness of the earth
and the infinite tenderness of the heavens. Every harsh line,
every glare of light, every crude tone has disappeared. We stroke
nature and she purrs. We sink at our