the Habitant. Or he could wander down the valley and climb up to where little Lake Annette lies a blinking emerald eye under the shadow of Mt. Temple.
Sad that none of us can stay in our Paradise Valley forever. Is it our battered boots and our glissaded nether garments that clamor for repair? And, now that I bethink me, it was some question of clothing—that and fresh fruit—that took my ancestor from his Paradise Valley. Look as long as the daylight lasts at the beautiful mountains, sit as late as you can about the camp fire, there must come an end. Already one roll of blankets has gone from tent No. 5, and more are to go. You have sat at the Annual Meeting in the firelight, you have heard the wit and wisdom of the "Alpine Herald" recited in the same magic light, you have taken your last mouthful of Mok Hen's bacon. Pack your dunnage bag, man! Roll your blankets! Hit the trail! As you mount the rise at the valley's mouth and turn for one last look before striding off for Lake Louise and the Outside, you seem to see across the entrance a flaming sword turning every way—or is it only the sunlight glancing from the snows of Hungabee?
