"Oh! Still, I am not used to them. I
think I might be not -- not very happy with
them. They might think me queer. I
think I would like to show your sister the
mountains."

"She has seen them often."

"Oh, she told me. But I don't mean
those pretty green hills such as we saw com-
ing here. They are not like my mountains.
I like mountains that go beyond the clouds,
with terrible shadows in the hollows, and
belts of snow lying in the gorges where the
sun cannot reach, and the snow is blue in
the sunshine, or shining till you think it is
silver, and the mist so wonderful all about
it, changing each moment and drifting up
and down, that you cannot tell what name
to give the colors. These mountains of
yours here in the East are so quiet; mine
are shouting all the time, with the pines and
the rivers. The echoes are so loud in the
valley that sometimes, when the wind is
rising, we can hardly hear a man talk unless
he raises his voice. There are four cataracts
near where I live, and they all have different
voices, just as people do; and one of them
is happy -- a little white cataract -- and it falls
where the sun shines earliest, and till night