The Mountain is weary of summer. The glorious mantle of snow has fallen from the shoulders in an unseemly manner, exposing grimy ice and wrinkled rock. It is an elderly Mountain we see at the end of summer, an old woman in a tattered night-dress; we intrude upon the privacy which her age and dignity should allow her. We are not meant to see her thus. A week or two, a second of geologic time, and she will wreathe herself in frosted lace and satin, again elegant and presentable before her guests.
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