e radiance faded and a shadowy velvet veiled the
mountains, a humid depth of gloom behind which lurked all the mysteries
of life and death, while above, the clouds hung ashen and dull; lights
twinkled and flashed along the shore, boats glided in the twilight, and
the little puffing of motors droned away. Then was the hour to talk of
life and the meaning of life, while above gleamed silently, suddenly,
star on star.

Bar Harbor lies beneath a mighty mountain, a great, bare, black mountain
that sleeps above the town; but as you leave, it rises suddenly,
threateningly, until far away on Frenchman's Bay it looms above the town
in withering vastness, as if to call all that little world petty save
itself. Beneath the cool, wide stare of that great mountain, men cannot
live as giddily as in some lesser summer's playground. Before the
unveiled face of nature, as it lies naked on the Maine coast, rises a
certain human awe.

God molded his world largely and mightily off this marvelous coast and
meant that in the tired days of life men should come and worship here
and renew their spirit. This I have done and turning I go to work again.
As we go, ever the mountains of Mount Desert rise and greet us on our
going--somber, rock-ribbed and silent, looking unmoved on the moving
world, yet conscious of their everlasting strength.

About us beats the sea--the sail-flecked, restless sea, humming its tune
about our flying keel, unmindful of the voices of men. The land sinks to
meadows, black pine forests, with here and there a blue and wistful
mountain. Then there are islands--bold rocks above the sea, curled
meadows; through and about them roll ships, weather-beaten and patched
of sail, strong-hulled and smoking, light gray and shining. All the
colors of the sea lie about us--gray and yellowing greens and doubtful
blues, blacks not quite black, tinted silvers and golds and dreaming
whites. Long tongues of dark and golden land lick far out into the
tossing waters, and the white gulls sail and scream above them. It is a
mighty coast--ground out and pounded, scarred, crushed, and carven in
massive, frightful lineaments. Everywhere stand the pines--the little
dark and steadfast pines that smile not, neither weep, but wait and
wait. Near us lie isles of flesh and blood, white cottages, tiled and
meadowed. Afar lie shadow-lands, high mist-hidden hills, mountains
boldly limned, yet shading to the sky, faint and unreal.

We skirt the pine-clad