Pure and white amid the heavens
God hath set His glorious sign:
Symbol of a world’s deliverance,
Promise of a life divine.”
THE MOUNT OF THE HOLY CROSS.
A little pause followed the poem, which Randolph had repeated in low, quiet tones. At length it was time to go, and with Ruel for guide once more, they threaded their way over fallen trees, around stumps and treacherous ledges, down the mountain side until, at a distance of perhaps a furlong from the summit, the guide threw down his axe.
“I guess this’ll dew,” said he.
“This” was a small cleared spot, some fifty feet across, along the further side of which ran the brook, forming half a dozen mimic cataracts. The woods on all sides were composed of evergreens, interspersed with clumps of white birch showing prettily here and there among the darker shadows.
“Now,” said Mr. Percival briskly, “you and the girls can start a fire and set the table, Randolph, while Tom helps Ruel and me to build a camp.”