There came a break in the tall, cool pines that lined the trail and that
covered the path with glimmering shadows. Through the opening the high
summits of Mount St. Helens glittered like a city of pearl, far, far away
in the clear, bright air. The girl's blue eyes opened wide, and her feet
stumbled.

"There, there you go again down in the hollow! Haven't you any eyes? I
would think you had by the looks of them. Well, Gretchen, they were placed
right in the front of your head so as to look forward; they would have
been put in the top of your head if it had been meant that you should look
up to the sky in that way. What is it you see?"

"Oh, mother, I wish I was--an author."

"An author! What put that into your simple head? You meant to say you
would like to be a poet, but you didn't dare to, because you know I don't
approve of such things. People who get such flighty ideas into their loose
minds always find the world full of hollows. No, Gretchen, I am willing
you should play on the violin, though some of the Methody do not approve
of that; and that you should finger the musical glasses in the
evening--they have a religious sound and soothe me, like; but the reading
of poetry and novels I never did countenance, except Methody hymns and the
'Fool of Quality,' and as for the writing of poetry, it is a Boston notion
and an ornary habit. Nature is all full of poetry out here, and what this
country needs is pioneers, not poets."

There came into view another opening among the pines as the two went on.
The sun was ascending a cloudless sky, and far away in the cerulean arch
of glimmering splendors the crystal peaks and domes of St. Helens appeared
again.