stands on the grave and stately mass that juts out, when seen from the west, like a great promontory. Tradition says that when all Monadnock itself was still forest-clad and the haunt of wolf-packs, before the revealing flame had given its splendor to the world, this bald, uprising mass on the long south shoulder was the one open point. From here the line of the crest drops again gradually northward to the deep indentation where lies a little cross-valley between it and the mountain. On the other side of this little cross-valley, rise sharply small precipices one after another as the great peak begins to lift itself from the trees.
The Mountain-Lover flings himself down against a rock with his face to the north. It is the nearest view he has taken of his Giant since his arrival. He holds his breath a little. Though he knows every line and slope and crag and drop of that beloved height, he takes his first thrill all over again, plus all the later thrills, as he gazes. Over the summit, deeply, ineffably blue,
