Thus, by forces seemingly antagonistic and destructive, Nature
accomplishes her beneficent designs--now a flood of fire, now a flood of
ice, now a flood of water; and again in the fullness of time an outburst
of organic life--forest and garden, with all their wealth of fruit and
flowers, the air stirred into one universal hum with rejoicing insects,
a milky way of wings and petals, girdling the newborn mountain like a
cloud, as if the vivifying sunbeams beating against its sides had broken
into a foam of plant-bloom and bees.

But with such grand displays as Nature is making here, how grand are her
reservations, bestowed only upon those who devotedly seek them! Beneath
the smooth and snowy surface the fountain fires are still aglow, to
blaze forth afresh at their appointed times. The glaciers, looking so
still and small at a distance, represented by the artist with a patch of
white paint laid on by a single stroke of his brush, are still flowing
onward, unhalting, with deep crystal currents, sculpturing the mountain
with stern, resistless energy. How many caves and fountains that no
eye has yet seen lie with all their fine furniture deep down in the
darkness, and how many shy wild creatures are at home beneath the
grateful lights and shadows of the woods, rejoicing in their fullness of
perfect life!

Standing on the edge of the Strawberry Meadows in the sun-days of
summer, not a foot or feather or leaf seems to stir; and the grand,
towering mountain with all its inhabitants appears in rest, calm as a
star. Yet how profound is the energy ever in action, and how great is
the multitude of claws and teeth, wings and eyes, wide awake and at work
and shining! Going into the blessed wilderness, the blood of the plants
throbbing beneath the life-giving sunshine seems to be heard and felt;
plant growth goes on before our eyes, and every tree and bush and flower
is seen as a hive of restless industry. The deeps of the sky are
mottled with singing wings of every color and tone--clouds of brilliant
chrysididae dancing and swirling in joyous rhythm, golden-barred
vespidae, butterflies, grating cicadas and jolly rattling
grasshoppers--fairly enameling the light, and shaking all the air into
music. Happy fellows they are, every one of them, blowing tiny pipe and
trumpet, plodding and prancing, at work or at play.

Though winter holds the summit, Shasta in summer is mostly a massy,
bossy mound of flowers colored like the alpenglow