The walls,
too, are dashed with bits of bright color that gleam out on the neutral
granite gray. But neither the walls, nor the margin meadow, nor yet the
gay, fluttering grove in which you stand, nor the lake itself, flashing
with spangles, can long hold your attention; for at the head of the lake
there is a gorgeous mass of orange-yellow, belonging to the main aspen
belt of the basin, which seems the very fountain whence all the color
below it had flowed, and here your eye is filled and fixed. This
glorious mass is about thirty feet high, and extends across the basin
nearly from wall to wall. Rich bosses of willow flame in front of it,
and from the base of these the brown meadow comes forward to the water's
edge, the whole being relieved against the unyielding green of the
coniferae, while thick sun-gold is poured over all.
During these blessed color-days no cloud darkens the sky, the winds are
gentle, and the landscape rests, hushed everywhere, and indescribably
impressive. A few ducks are usually seen sailing on the lake, apparently
more for pleasure than anything else, and the ouzels at the head of the
rapids sing always; while robins, grosbeaks, and the Douglas squirrels
are busy in the groves, making delightful company, and intensifying the
feeling of grateful sequestration without ruffling the deep, hushed calm
and peace.
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