A fleecy cloud floating above the snow-capped mountain peak sent earthward a shower of glittering raindrops just at the sunset hour. The rain ceased as suddenly as it came. The sun shone out, bringing with it a rainbow so wonderful that mere words cannot describe it. I would need a pen dipped in the asure of the wild Columbine to write of the heavenly blue, the tint of the wild Rose with its blushing cheek for the rosy hue, a feather from the breast of the brilliant Oriole for the golden glow. I would use the brush with which nature painted the stately mountain pines for the green, the distant hills at twilight for the purple. I must have the paint pots of all the mountain wild flowers for the shadowy elusive radiance glorifying the very grass at my feet. I stood silent and awed by its very nearness. The magnificence of it erased the sordid things of earth from my mind so completely that I forgot to look for the bag of gold said to be at its end. The very door of heaven had been left ajar, "at the end of a perfect day," and this wonderful rainbow had floated out and was wafted downward to give tired humanity a glimpse of heaven's reflected glory.
