Now it was of over-lapping hills set with little mesas, like folds of green velvet flung over the rocks; now of dim-seen valley depths with winding links of silver rivers; and again of countless mountain peaks sharp-cut against the sunset sky,--some rosy pink, some shining with snow.
The flowers were a continual marvel.

At the top of the pass, eleven thousand feet and more above the sea, their colors and their abundance were more profuse and splendid than on the lower levels.

There were whole fields of pentstemons, pink, blue, royal purple, or the rare scarlet variety, like stems of asparagus strung with rubies.

There were masses of gillias, and of wonderful coreopsis, enormous cream-colored stars with deep-orange centres, and deep yellow ones with scarlet centres; thickets of snowy-cupped mentzelia and of wild rose; while here and there a tall red lily burned like a little lonely flame in the green, or regiments of convolvuli waved their stately heads.
From below came now and again the tinkle of distant cow-bells.

These, and the plaintive coo of mourning-doves in the branches, and the rush of the wind, which was like cool flower-scented wine, was all that broke the stillness of the high places.
"To think I'm so much nearer heaven Than when I was a boy," misquoted Clover, as she sat on the rear platform of the car, with Poppy, and Thurber Wade.
"Are you sure your head doesn't ache?
This elevation plays the mischief with some people.