There were the tops
of the mountains bathed in floods of golden light, while their
lower levels were already dim with twilight gloom. How true, in
life, we said, are the sunshine and shadow. The paths of ease
and self-indulgence are full of mortals because they wind and
diverge from the way of truth, leading to lower and more easily
attained levels. But up on the mountain top no dissatisfied
throng stirs up the dust and we feel that joyous exaltation of
spirit which comes to those who climb a little nearer heaven.
In the park-like space in which we find the Crawford House, how
quiet and beautiful all things are! Towering all around are
lofty peaks as if to shut out the beauty from the rest of the
world. We are not artists, so we sit down in this quiet-retreat
and let Nature paint the picture. The breath of the pine and
birch fills the place like incense. The softly sighing pines
with the distant waterfalls are singing their age-old songs. The
evergreens are marshalled in serried ranks, spire above spire,
like a phalanx of German soldiers clad in their green coats,
their spiked helmets gleaming in the evening light. But they are
pushing on to "victory and peace," and each soldier with aeolian
melodies marches to his own accompaniment while the evening
breeze softly thrums its anthem of divine love. We wished our
lives might be pierced by the mystery of their gleaming javelins
that we too might learn their lessons of strength, endurance and
noble aspiration. As we stood at the base of these glorious
forest-crowned mountains, gazing in rapt admiration and wonder
at God's "handiwork," we were conscious of a revelation
whispered through the myriad needles of the pine. How small seem
the honors, customs, cares, and petty bickerings of men seen
through the vast perspective of these eternal hills. How quickly
we forget our seeming ills and are more in "tune with the
Infinite."
"The holy time is quiet as a nun
Breathless with adoration."
As the shadows crept higher along the ridges the breeze died
away. The great artist, evening, with all rare colors was
painting another masterpiece. The last rays of the sun were now
gilding the mountain peaks; long ago their bases rested in
purple shadow and the yellow light seemed to be reflected from
all their wooded heights. At our right lay Mount Tom in deep
shadow; the pines on Mount Jackson to the east cut the blue
vault of the sky with their serrated edges. The drooping birch
trees stood silent as if awaiting a benediction. The sky all
along the eastern horizon was a broad belt of old rose which
deepened to crimson, then crimson was succeeded by daffodil
yellow.
