Emma L. Dillingham.
e stood shivering on the brink. At our very feet was the crater of Haleakala, the House of the sun, but that luminary had gone to his other realms and left his dwelling dark, unfathomable and void. No voice of nature was there, no murmuring breeze, no note of bird, no spirit of man or of God moved in those lone and abysmal depths. Only the brilliant stars kept watch above, and they were immeasurable miles away.
We, who stood there in the cool morning air did not add in any way to the majesty of the scene, wrapped as we were in blankets—red, white and gray.
"Like lost spirits waiting for waftage to the other shore," remarked the tourist.
"I am sure I have lost my spirits," said a shivering unfortunate, "I think the guide stole them."
"It seems to me we look more like a group of savage Apaches on a bleak mountain summit sketched by Remington," suggested the artist of the crowd.