How like a prayer was that vast
sea of changing colors. The poem of creation was written
unmistakably upon the evening sky. Out here God himself is
teaching his grandest lessons, but alas! how few there are who
really hear them.
How wonderful the dawns and twilights; how vast and changeable
the ocean; how pure and deep the lakes; how strong and high the
mountains; how infinite and full of mystery the sky, yet how few
there are who really see and enjoy them.
If only all people would accept the invitation froth that sweet
singer of the Wabash, Maurice Thompson, we would hear fewer
people say, "It isn't much," or "We are exceedingly disappointed
in it."
"Come, let us go, each pulse is precious,
Come, ere the day has lost its dawn;
And you shall quaff life's finest essence
From primal flagons drawn!
Just for a day to slip off the tether
Of hot-house wants, and dare to be
A child of Nature, strong and simple,
Out in the woods with me."
How calmly and soothingly night came on! Over the quiet glen at
Crawford's notch, the sunset, moonlight, and starlight were
weaving the mysterious spell of the night. On the very edge of a
mountain ridge glowed the evening star. There was no sound
except the rhythmical murmur of the pines and far-heard sound of
waterfalls. Presently a night hawk rose from a wooded ridge and
uttered her weird cry, then a bat darted "hither and thither, as
if tethered by invisible strings." Then began the real serenade
of the evening. Down in the waters of Lake Waco the frogs broke
the silence. We moved slowly to the edge of the water,
disturbing some of the members of the aquatic orchestra, who
kept springing into the lake with a final croak of disapproval.
We made our way back to the hotel across the velvety grass,
already wet with dew, to find a crowd of splendidly attired
tourists, poring over their cards or dancing away those rare
hours, at the close of "one of those heavenly days that cannot
die."
"Sweet is the breath of Morn, her rising sweet,
With charm of earliest birds."
So thought we as the day that was breaking found us out in the
lovely glen; hemmed in on all sides by lofty hills. The birds at
this season of the year do most of their singing in the morning
hours. Early as the time was, we were not the first to greet the
coming dawn.
The blue mantle that clothed the mountains had been withdrawn so
that the serrated points of spruce and pine stood out in bold
relief against the pale blue of the morning sky.
