Bob had never seen any real
mountains before, and so was much interested. The train laboured up the
grades, steep to the engine, but insignificant to the eye; it passed
through the canons to the broad central plateau. The country was broken
and strange, with its wide, free sweeps, its sage brush, its stunted
trees, but it was not mountainous as Bob had conceived mountains. Baker
grinned at him.
"Snowclad peaks not up to specifications?" he inquired. "Chromos much
better? Mountain grandeur somewhat on the blink? Where'd you expect them
to put a railroad--out where the scenery is? Never mind. Wait till you
slide off 'Cape Horn' into California."
The cold weather followed them to the top of the Sierras. Snow, dull
clouds, mists and cold enveloped the train. Miles of snowsheds
necessitated keeping the artificial light burning even at midday. Winter
held them in its grip.
Then one morning they rounded the bold corner of a high mountain. Far
below them dropped away the lesser peaks, down a breathless descent. And
from beneath, so distant as to draw over themselves a tender veil of
pearl gray, flowed out foothills and green plains.
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