coloring about it. It was a bas-relief cut on granite--full of power,
enduring, and with a touch of eternity about it. Such picture-drawing
is not flowery and does not wither.

I know that the popular subjects of interest in the mountains are
sunrise and sunset, but for something really worth writing about, and
much more rare, give me a fog spread out at the feet like a white
carpet. Ah! that is something worth seeing. The valley, a mile below,
is hidden in the gauzy sea, and the tops of mountain spurs here and
there peep out like little islands. The white, silent sea is spread
for miles and miles. Underneath it is life, an invisible wagon rumbles,
a horse neighs, a man calls to his neighbor, but the surface is calm,
still, level. You would not be surprised to see a steamer come puffing
from behind one of the islands. The wind presses the sea into billows
which shift to and fro as water would. Away down on a wagon road you
hear the tinkling of bells and a Hock of sheep emerge from a rift in
the mist and turning disappear in another cloud of it. The fog parts
again and a white top wagon, with four horses, is seen toiling slowly
along. The driver cracks his whip and the sea of mist slowly rolls
over him again. Another shifting, and a little farmhouse appears, with
a man riding from under the trees. He rides into the mist and the
farmhouse disappears. A railroad train rushes out of a bank of white
wool and into another, in complete silence. The white sea gets uneasy
under the wind, and the sun begins to brighten up the clouds above.
Then the woolen surface begins to move. A mountain spur makes its
appearance clear against the sky; the farm houses silently glide from
under the sea; a flock of sheep, whose shepherd dog's bark you have
heard from under the mist, is revealed. The sea is fast being blown
away. The sun comes out. The whole landscape is changed and the great
billows of mist that have covered it are now thin strips of white cloud