As we to higher levels rise.

So sang Longfellow. Bishop Warren said that every peak tempted him as
with a beckoning finger, daring him to a climb.

To those who have never been nearer the unlocked fastnesses of our
eternal American hills than by the too common means above mentioned,
the far-away cliffs of marble or white granite, with their areas of
unmeltable snows and ices, look temptingly down on us in August,
together with the smaller and less inspiring crags. But when we
approach them, even those nearest, how they appear to recede--almost
to run away! The high peaks that looked as though climbing up and
peeping over the heads of the lower ones, either jump down and
bashfully run to hide, or the little ones rise up to protect them. So
it seems as one approaches.

Entering the mountain side by way of a yawning canyon we soon come to a
sheer precipice lying in a deep gorge with perpendicular sides, while,
leaping from the top of the declivity high above our heads, as if from
the very zenith, a stream of crystal water cleaves the air. It is
dashed into countless strands of silvery pearls before it reaches the
deep bed of moss spread down to receive it, and where it lies resting
awhile for its downward journey toward the moon-whipped ocean.

Ah, Longfellow! You have taught us how to climb some mountains, but
here we have to construct our ladders, for anyone less sure of foot
than the chamois or the mountain sheep must stay at the bottom of the
falls. Scylla and Charybdis are stationary now, and the gaping chasm
has swallowed us upward, where we reach an opening into a wide park, a
veritable fairyland. On the top of one of those ponderous laminations
tilted edgewise is the king of the gnomes of the new glen. We call
him Pharaoh. How archly he looks out over his wide domain! His kingly
cap is adorned with a cobra ready to strike, yet out on his ample
breast floats a most royal but un-Pharonic beard. This is one of the
ways the quondam haughty hills have of providing entertainment for the
bold questioner and visitor.

The scenery is always new. High rocks, whose rugged faces look as if
their titanic architect had been surprised and driven away while as
yet his task was not half completed; long gaping gulches lined with an
evergreen decoration of spruce, cedar, manzanita, and mountain
mahogany, are some of the sidelights to be found in a day's journey in
the realms adjacent to the Old Oregon Trail.

THE ST