"I have been travelling the 'long path' too many years for that, Deacon."
"Well, you'll enjoy it, all the same."
Of course I had to thank the Deacon for the compliment and I promised to "try it."
The next day a few fleecy clouds climbed up over the hills in the west, and in the afternoon we moved further down the river toward Meeker. That evening we put up the fly for the first time, lapped and pegged down the ends. We thought we might have rain before morning, but were disappointed.
The following morning the clouds put in an appearance again; the sky had been absolutely clear during the most of our trip, and the pretty harbingers afforded a relief. From white they gathered into clusters and turned to gray, and the drapery of a darker shade, hanging below, told of the rain. It passed us by, however, and we had a beautiful sunset. The west was clear, while just above a range of hills in the east, veiled with a thin blue mist, was a stratum of pale bronze, its upper line apparently as straight as if run by a level. From this base of miles in length there arose a great mass of clouds, seemingly thousands of feet in height, and white as carded wool. Its northern and southern ends were almost perpendicular, and its summit of great rolling folds was outlined against the delicate blue of the sky. For half an hour there seemed no change; the huge pile stood apparently still, pure and white as newly-fallen snow. Then, as if moved by some gentle and artistic freak of its presiding genius, a rift in a mountain side appeared, reaching from the bronze base to the top, the line was sharply defined in white and gray and the shadow was cast against the background of white to our right. Away at the northerly summit a small bit seemed to break away, or was left; it divided, and in a few moments there were clearly defined a pair of gigantic wings, regular in their contour as those of a bird. In another place a gray tower presented itself with a great arched doorway near its base. Castles would spring into a brief existence, machicolated and loop-holed, to be lost again in some modern cottage with vine-clad porch. Along the upper margin figures would come and go as if the gods and their retinues were all abroad directing a magnificent display. And in one corner, by itself, there was plainly outlined a fleecy hood, into which I caught myself intently gazing, expecting to see the laughing eyes and face of a beautiful child. All this in tones of white and gray. But as the sun sank lower, veils of slanting mist appeared here and there, the apparently solid mass was being broken up, the summit was still white scroll-work, but below, the line of bronze had turned into a crimson shade, within an uneven apex; the lead-colored base of the main body was changing to a purple hue, and all through the mass the rose and amber were being laid in, shifting from moment to moment, until the hues became bewildering in their multitude; then, as the sun went down, the gray tones returned again, such as the artist may sometimes give a hint of but never paints.
It was a great storm we had witnessed, away over the range to the east; we were far from the sound of the artillery, and it hid from us the flash of its batteries.
During the beautiful display the Deacon's young wife sat a few feet in front of me and to the left. She had moved but once, and that was when the first shadow came and marked out the great gorge; she turned round then, and said to me:
"Is it not grand?"