THE KING OF THE GOLDEN RIVER.

BY JOHN RUSKIN.


I.

In a secluded and mountainous part of Styria, there was, in old time, a
valley of the most surprising and luxuriant fertility. It was surrounded,
on all sides, by steep and rocky mountains, rising into peaks, which
were always covered with snow, and from which a number of torrents
descended in constant cataracts. One of these fell westward, over the
face of a crag so high that, when the sun had set to everything else,
and all below was darkness, his beams still shone full upon this
waterfall, so that it looked like a shower of gold. It was, therefore,
called by the people of the neighborhood the Golden River. It was
strange that none of these streams fell into the valley itself. They all
descended on the other side of the mountains, and wound away through
broad plains and by populous cities. But the clouds were drawn so
constantly to the snowy hills, and rested so softly in the circular
hollow, that, in time of drought and heat, when all the country round
was burnt up, there was still rain in the little valley; and its crops
were so heavy, and its hay so high, and its apples so red, and its
grapes so blue, and its wine so rich, and its honey so sweet, that it
was a marvel to every one who beheld it, and was commonly called the
Treasure Valley.