wise bird, he settles down and tries to become satisfied
with his surroundings; even to gather pleasure from the gilt wires and
the cuttlebone thrust picturesquely between them. When the sea gull
wings his majestic way past his habitation, free as the wind itself,
the wise bird will close his eyes, and affect not to see. So, also,
will the gull, for there is no loneliness comparable with unlimited
freedom.

Upon the heights, the great ones stand--alone. To the dweller in the
valley, those distant peaks are clad in more than mortal splendour.
Time and distance veil the jagged cliffs and hide the precipices. Day
comes first to the peaks and lingers there longest; while it is night
in the valley, there is still afterglow upon the hills.

Perhaps, some dweller in the valley longs for the height, and sets
forth, heeding not the eager hands that, selfishly, as it seems, would
keep him within their loving reach. Having once turned his face
upward, he does not falter, even for the space of a backward look. He
finds that the way is steep, that there is no place to rest, and that
the comfort and shelter of the valley are unknown. The sun burns him,
and the cold freezes his very blood, for there are only extremes on the
way to the peak. Glittering wastes of ice dazzle him and snow blinds
him, with terror and not with beauty as from below. The opaline mists
are gone, and he sees with dreadful clearness the path which lies
immediately ahead.

Beyond, there is emptiness, vast as the desert. At the timber line, he
pauses, and, for the first time, looks back. Ah, how fair the valley
lies below him! The silvery ribbon of the river winds through a
pageantry of green and gold. Upon the banks are woodland nooks,
fragrant with growing things and filled with a tender quiet broken only
by the murmer of the stream. The turf is soft and cool to the
wayfarer's tired feet, and there is crystal water in abundance to
quench his thirst.

But, from the peak, no traveller returns, for the way is hopelessly cut
off. Above the timber line there is only a waste of rock, worn by vast
centuries in which every day is an ordinary lifetime, into small,
jagged stones that cut the feet. The crags are thunder-swept and blown
by cataclysmic storms of which the dwellers in the valley have never
dreamed. In the unspeakable loneliness, the pilgrim abides for ever
with his mocking wreath of laurel, cheered only by a rumbling,
reverberant "All Ha