recent skimming in the upper blue. A limpid orchestra.
Now Cranberry Crag detached itself as the walker approached it, with its picturesque Japanesey little trees on its romantic little height. Up this he went and then down on the hither side, but he descended it on his back as his feet slipped in the sopping, treacherous moss and mountain grass. On and on down; he reached the high swampy spot where the cotton-grass grows—now a veritable little lake. He skirted its rippling surface. He turned to his left and presently passed Lot's Wife, shiny and sparkling from her recent bath. A little further and he was at tree-line, and he passed under the swaying, dripping branches from which every baby-breeze sent showers of drops teasingly all over him. But what a storm! How glorious it had been! The magnificent lordly crash of the thunder yet rang reverberatingly in his ears. What a storm! And he was of it!
