Range, but the Range of Light.

_August 27._ Clouds only .05,--mostly white and pink cumuli over the
Hoffman spur towards evening,--frosty morning. Crystals grow in
marvelous beauty and perfection of form these still nights, every one
built as carefully as the grandest holiest temple, as if planned to
endure forever.

Contemplating the lace-like fabric of streams outspread over the
mountains, we are reminded that everything is flowing--going somewhere,
animals and so-called lifeless rocks as well as water. Thus the snow
flows fast or slow in grand beauty-making glaciers and avalanches; the
air in majestic floods carrying minerals, plant leaves, seeds, spores,
with streams of music and fragrance; water streams carrying rocks both
in solution and in the form of mud particles, sand, pebbles, and
boulders. Rocks flow from volcanoes like water from springs, and animals
flock together and flow in currents modified by stepping, leaping,
gliding, flying, swimming, etc. While the stars go streaming through
space pulsed on and on forever like blood globules in Nature's warm
heart.

_August 28._ The dawn a glorious song of color. Sky absolutely
cloudless. A fine crop hoarfrost. Warm after ten o'clock. The gentians
don't mind the first frost though their petals seem so delicate; they
close every night as if going to sleep, and awake fresh as ever in the
morning sun-glory. The grass is a shade browner since last week, but
there are no nipped wilted plants of any sort as far as I have seen.
Butterflies and the grand host of smaller flies are benumbed every
night, but they hover and dance in the sunbeams over the meadows before
noon with no apparent lack of playful, joyful life. Soon they must all
fall like petals in an orchard, dry and wrinkled, not a wing of all the
mighty host left to tingle the air. Nevertheless new myriads will arise
in the spring, rejoicing, exulting, as if laughing cold death to scorn.

_August 29._ Clouds about .05, slight frost. Bland serene Indian summer
weather. Have been gazing all day at the mountains, watching the
changing lights. More and more plainly are they clothed with light as a
garment, white tinged with pale purple, palest during the midday hours,
richest in the morning and evening. Everything seems consciously
peaceful, thoughtful, faithfully waiting God's will.

_August 30._ This day just like yesterday. A few clouds motionless and
apparently with no work to do beyond looking beautiful. Fr