I passed Bridal-Veil Fall without a reference. I
was tempted to loiter on the banks of the Feld-spar and the bright
Opalescent, but I passed by without even picking a pebble from the
clear basins of its sparkling cascades. I passed the "tear of the
clouds," four thousand feet above the tide--that fountain of the
Hudson nearest to the sky, without being beguiled into poetry. I have
not ventured upon a description of a sunrise view from the summit of
Tahawas, of the magic effect of light above clouds that clothe the
surrounding peaks in garments wrought, it seems, of softest wool,
until mist and vapor dissolve in roseate colors, and the landscape
lies before us like an open book, which many glad eyes have looked
upon again and again. I have left it for your guides to tell you, by
roaring camp-fires, long stories of adventure in trapping and hunting,
of wondrous fishes that grow longer and heavier every season, although
captured and broiled many and many a year ago--trout and pickerel
literally pickled in fiction, served and re-served in the piquant
sauce of mountain vocabulary.
Pages:
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376