oined by the
taller Yellow and Mountain Pines. These, with the burly juniper, and
shimmering aspen, rapidly grow larger as the sunshine becomes richer,
forming groves that block the view; or they stand more apart here and
there in picturesque groups, that make beautiful and obvious harmony
with the rocks and with one another. Blooming underbrush becomes
abundant,--azalea, spiraea, and the brier-rose weaving fringes for the
streams, and shaggy rugs to relieve the stern, unflinching rock-bosses.

Through this delightful wilderness, Canon Creek roves without any
constraining channel, throbbing and wavering; now in sunshine, now in
thoughtful shade; falling, swirling, flashing from side to side in
weariless exuberance of energy. A glorious milky way of cascades is thus
developed, of which Bower Cascade, though one of the smallest, is
perhaps the most beautiful of them all. It is situated in the lower
region of the pass, just where the sunshine begins to mellow between the
cold and warm climates. Here the glad creek, grown strong with tribute
gathered from many a snowy fountain on the heights, sings richer
strains, and becomes more human and lovable at every step. Now you may
by its side find the rose and homely yarrow, and small meadows full of
bees and clover. At the head of a low-browed rock, luxuriant dogwood
bushes and willows arch over from bank to bank, embowering the stream
with their leafy branches; and drooping plumes, kept in motion by the
current, fringe the brow of the cascade in front. From this leafy covert
the stream leaps out into the light in a fluted curve thick sown with
sparkling crystals, and falls into a pool filled with brown boulders,
out of which it creeps gray with foam-bells and disappears in a tangle
of verdure like that from which it came.

Hence, to the foot of the canon, the metamorphic slates give place to
granite, whose nobler sculpture calls forth expressions of corresponding
beauty from the stream in passing over it,--bright trills of rapids,
booming notes of falls, solemn hushes of smooth-gliding sheets, all
chanting and blending in glorious harmony. When, at length, its
impetuous alpine life is done, it slips through a meadow with scarce an
audible whisper, and falls asleep in Moraine Lake.

This water-bed is one of the finest I ever saw. Evergreens wave
soothingly about it, and the breath of flowers floats over it like
incense. Here our blessed stream rests from its rocky wanderings,