Ways of the Lonely Ones

Excerpt:

Nature's Homage

Civilization, with the consuming power of quicksilver, dissolves into itself the wild places of the world. Where great forests once stood, gloomy buildings with high angular chimneys now darken narrow cobbled ways. Natural grandeur has been swallowed up in the sordidness of human construction. Here and there, however, may yet be found spots where man has not encroached -- where the sound of the axe, the cries of the woodmen and the rumbling of logs have not broken the primeval stillness. One by one the savage denizens of the wild, the beasts tin-tamed, have retreated into these scarce-trodden fastnesses before the deadly onslaught of civilization, whence from lonely crag and primeval wilderness they gaze out with furtive eyes and watch the relentless advance of that dread power which would destroy their lives.

In a certain land there is a majestic mountain range which lifts its towering peaks, with rough and densely wooded sides, like great supplicating arms to the skies. From out the verdant luxuriance' of tree and shrub mighty straggling monarchs of the forest toss high their branches as though to grasp in their trembling fingers the clouds that hover over them. A narrow trail,; barely a foot path -- winds up to these mountains. Here and there it leads over loose rocks and broken boulders and from stone to stone across some water-fall that descends like a stream of crystal from the snow-covered peaks far above. There is no silence in that wood, for there is ever a rippling, ever a swishing, ever a sighing, as from the mountains trickle. numberless streams or through the tree tops the wind whispers its message to any listening ear.

Up this narrow path climbs an occasional hunter, for the deer still peer shyly out of the thickets or spring from rock to rock or dart fleetly among the scrub growth that clothe the precipitous slopes on either hand. Here, too, the mountain lion lurks and at night, with shining eyes, gazes out from the darkness at the campfire of the hunter. Here also abound wolves and r foxes, and in the lower valleys prowl coyotes that yap an incessant protest as the shades of evening gather. Mayhap an awkward bear crosses the path and waddles along on his short, ungainly legs. It is the joy place of the hunter, who, with the glee of the sportsman, slays to prove the merit of his aim.

Many stories are told of these mountains, many legends fashioned by the minds of ancient dreamers and perpetuated by their descendents; but the strangest of all is the story of the Old Man of the Mountain.