Then upward climbed to view the sight
Of raging storm on Long's Peak height,
And saw ambition's fixéd star
On guard, within the gates ajar,
Lest mortal man should enter in
Before absolved from venial sin.
The solitude of those drear crests
No welcome gives to lingering guests
When storm king vies with mid-day sun
In battle, 'til the conquered one
Retreats for days, perhaps for weeks,
And gloom reigns o'er the lonely peaks.
The wild wind shrieked as in snow and hail
They undertook the downward trail.
She brav'd the cold and murmured not,
As they groped their way from spot to spot;
Her wondrous strength succumbed at last
While yet the "Keyhole" must be passed.
The stalwart guide in his arms then bore
Her fragile form, and ponder'd o'er
The waste of rocks beneath the "Key;"
For his strength was failing rapidly,
And night clouds dimm'd the tortuous way
Which few e'er tread e'en at mid-day.
"You may go for help," she moaned at last,
As through the "Key" they slowly pass'd.
"The rocks will shelter me," she said,
And sank to rest on the boulder bed.
He covered her with the coat he wore,
Then hastened to the "Half Way" door.
Another dawn of an autumn morn
In the eastern sky had been born,
As stalwart guides, with throbbing heads,
Toiled wearily o'er the boulder beds;
'Midst cruel crags and waist-deep snow
They battled on against the foe.
Up, up, they climb'd that dreadful night
And brav'd the storm on Long's Peak height;
Yet wild winds shrieked as heads were bow'd
To gaze with awe at the snowy shroud
In which she slept on her boulder bed.
"She lay to rest,—she's gone," they said.
"Oh, dear, isn't it sad?" said Hazel and Miss Asquith in a breath.
"She died alone?" queried Cal.
"Yes, sir," spoke up a guide, "both of us would have perished, but she was true grit to the last. I thought she might hold out, but the storm grew worse as it grew darker."