carpet of cranberries, matted and close and clean-cut, with glowing little globes of scarlet still yellow on the underside, hiding their unimagined spiciness in their firm polished plumpness. The tiny shining leaves were a delight to the eye.
In the middle foreground as one looked towards the summit lay the swampy little meadow with every shade of russet and brown and red and pale green, rejoicing the artist. Beyond it rose flanking walls and broad bed-rock surfaces; the meadow stretched to the edge of the torn rocks of the interjacent gorge which lies like a rough knife-slash close under towering heights. The sweep of the mountain from this point is perhaps the most splendid vision one may obtain of it; precipices, now sharp, now slanting; bare cliff basking in the sun; deep little black recesses in its rent sides; incredibly ancient, determined little spruces knotting themselves into crannies and cracks and clenching every vantage-point with their tough roots, their dark green embroidered
