Purchase of this book includes free trial access to www.million-books.com where you can read more than a million books for free. This is an OCR edition with typos. Excerpt from book: m. ON THE MOUNTAIN SIDE. Our village was so close under the Wa- satch that on the longest summer clays the sun rose little before seven o'clock. The upward slope began in the back yard, and our regular beat when looking for birds was up a steep lane leading to the mountain. When there were no birds on the stone walls to claim our attention, we stopped to admire the flowers along the lane, — small pink stars among the sage-brush, white stars shyly looking out from the high grass of neglected fence corners, bushy purple lupins and brilliant red " paint-brushes." Later in the year, wild roses and gorgeous masses of yellow flowers lightened up the lane. We looked at them with ignorant enjoyment, but when my friend's daiighter came, she did them better justice, studying them with the appreciative eye of a botanist. The sage-brush, with its delicate aromatic fragrance and varying tints, gave us almost as. much pleasure as the flowers. It rarely approached the dullness of sage green, but varied from silvery white to the delicate shell pink of a sunset sky. Seen in great sheets over the lower slopes of the mountain, the sage was perhaps most effective; but its silvery sheen was particularly beautiful against the blue of the sky. Climbing the lane we followed its joyous mountain brook, running with rapid music over the pebbles, or straying from its bed like a free thing of life to run over its green border, bending the long grass before it. Sometimes we plucked a nosegay of wild flowers and left it hidden under the bank to be freshened by the brook; and often, after our warm walk, would scoop up a handful of the clear cold water for a refreshing drink. While my friend was listening to the " wandering voice " of the mysterious chat, or studying the secretive ways of a family ...