face of the rock up which Joseph has swarmed; to say hopelessly, "I
can't do it, I can't," and then gradually to find here a niche for one
hand, here a foothold; to learn to cling to the rock, to use every bit
of oneself, to work one's way up delicately as a cat so as not to send
loose stones down on the climber below, until, panting, one lands
on the ledge appointed by Joseph, there to rest while the next man
climbs, it is the best of sports. And at the top to stand in the
"stainless eminence of air," to look down eight--ten--a thousand feet
to the toy village at the foot while John names all the other angel
peaks that soar round us, tell me, you who are also a climber, is it
not very good?

But the coming down! Stumbling wearily down the steep paths of the
pine-woods with the skin rubbed off one's toes, and giving at the
knees like an old and feeble horse, that is not so good. And yet--I
don't know. For as we near the valley, puffs of hot, scented air come
up to meet us, the tinkle of the cow-bell greets our ears, and we
realize that it is only given to those who have braved the perils, who
have searched for the deep things of the ancient mountains and found
out the precious things of the lasting hills, to thoroughly appreciate
the pleasant, homely quietness of the meadow-lands.

But I have wandered miles away from Sunday morning in Darjeeling.

It was still misty when we went out after breakfast, but not so
solidly misty, so Boggley held out hopes it would clear.

Darjeeling is a pretty place tucked into the mountain-side. In the
middle is the bazaar, and it happened to be market day, which made it
more interesting. The village street was lined on both sides with open