It
lives, literally, in the innermost heart and life of the hills. It seeks
its food at the foot of the falls, where the water boils in fierce fury;
where the current swirls and leaps among the boulders; and where the
stream rushes with all its might down the rocky channels. With its
muscles, fine as tempered steel, it forces its way against the strength of
the stream--conquering even the fifty-foot downward pour of a cataract.
Its strength is a silent strength. It has no voice other than the voice of
its own beautiful self. And all its gleaming colors you may see, in the
morning and in the evening, tinting the mighty heads and shoulders and
sides of the hills themselves. And so, the first gift that I brought
you--fresh from the mountain's heart--was the gift of the mountain's
strength.
"The second gift was gathered from bushes that were never planted by the
hand of man. They grow as free and untamed as the rains that water them,
and the earth that feeds them, and the sunshine that sweetens hem. In them
is the flavor of mountain mists, and low hung clouds, and shining dew; the
odor of moist leaf-mould, and unimpoverished soil; the pleasant tang of
the sunshine; and the softer sweetness of the shady nooks where they grow.
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