of her too far. There are men, who can ill afford it, who buy weeks in Lovely Lucerne from Mr. Cook—(the extent of human discomfort caused by this person is shocking to contemplate)—and standing upon the Rigi Kulm, congratulate themselves that modern civilisation has brought this marvel within their reach for a five-pound note. My wife and I go up on to the Beacon Down, and, lying very comfortably on our backs, feast our eyes in half an hour with ten spectacles infinitely more gorgeous than that which these men have gone so far to see. For our mountains change, sir. They change. The Cloud Artist (having the root of the matter in him) never rests and says, "This is good enough." You say, "Ah, but the mountains change." I admit it. Within limits the mountains do change. But who, I ask you, changes them? The Cloud Artist.
It is, I think, this Great Lovely Lucerne Joke which makes the Cloud Artist so humorous on days of cumulus. While humanity is staring fixedly at its own element he, aloft there, for his own amusement, caricatures its treble-chinned self-satisfaction. And Earth, who knows her own limitations, shares the jest at her children's expense; but, the while, like a good mother, smiles indulgently on the loyal little things, and spares no pains to make them happy.
