Boys and men were busy making hay and their industry proclaimed that they had heeded the proverb of "make hay while the sun shines." Now and then herds of cattle were grazing or standing up to their knees in the cool of streams. What pictures of homely contentment they made! How much they add to the beauty of pastoral scenes! More and more we were impressed with the grandeur and grace of the restful, flowing outlines of these mountains. With the light gray of their granite walls and the vivid green of their forests, they make beautiful harmony. We paused along a beautiful sheet of water, Echo lake. A bugler whom some tourists paid for his crude attempts was doing his best (which was none too good) to awake the echoes. How harsh and grating were the tones he made, seeming like the bleat of a choking calf; yet, with what marvelous sweetness were those rasping tones transformed by the nymphs of the mountains. After a few moments' pause they were repeated among the nearer ridges, but softer and with a rare sweetness as pure and clear as a thrush's vesper bell. Again a short pause and we heard them higher, fainter, sweeter, until they died away among the hills; too fine for our mortal ears to catch. It seemed as if some sylvan deity, some Mendelssohn or Chopin of this vast forest solitude heard those harsh notes and putting a golden cornet to his lips, sent back the melodies the bugler meant to make. As the last reverberations died away among the hills we thought of those lines in Emerson's "May Day": Echo waits with Art and Care And will the faults of song repair. How crude the attempts of man at producing the melodies of life! How beautiful the discordant notes become when the Master Musician breathes into them the melodies of infinite love! "O love, they die in yon rich sky, They faint on field, or hill or river Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow forever and forever." The water of the lake was so clear we could see the white pebbles at the bottom, or the pike that swam slowly to the edge. How pure the mountains looked! How fresh and new the grass and flowers! The sky above was blue; the water of Profile lake was dark blue; the mountains wore a delicate veil of misty blue; blue were the myriads of delicate campanula that peeped from their rocky ledges; silvery blue was the smoke that curled from the forest's green from a dozen camp fires; and out of that mysterious all-pervading blue lifted the benign countenance of the Great Stone Face.