The view was indeed lovely: lakes shining here and there in the woods; far-away villages, with tiny white church spires; mossy green acres—thousands on thousands—of forest; the dim blue of Katahdin, to the northeast; overhead, the tenderest and bluest of midsummer skies.
“How beautiful that mountain looks!” said Pet slowly, from the turfy couch where she had thrown herself down. “I wonder if there are strange Indian stories and legends about it?”
“A good many, I expect,” replied Mr. Percival, baring his forehead to the cool breeze. “The Indians have always had a great respect for mountains, especially where there was some peculiar formation or feature which impressed their imagination—the ‘Profile,’ for instance, in the White Mountains.”
“I have heard the same about the Mount of the Holy Cross in Colorado,” added Randolph. “That was one of the—” he paused and flushed a little, as if uncertain whether to go on.
“Yes, yes,” laughed uncle Will, guessing from his manner what he was about to say. “It’s that famous brother of yours again. You ought to bring him up here sometime, to recite his own verses. However, you do it very well, for him.”
“What has he written about that mountain, Randolph?” asked Kittie in a respectful tone that made the rest laugh.
“O, only three or four verses,” said Randolph. “You know the Cross is formed by two immense ravines near the summit of the mountain, where the ice and snow lie all the year round. These are the verses.
THE MOUNT OF THE HOLY CROSS.
Down the rocky slopes and passes
Of the everlasting hills