Neither of the Boltwoods had seen the Grand Canyon of the Colorado. The

Canyon of the Yellowstone was their first revelation of intimidating

depth and color gone mad. When their car and Milt's had been parked in

the palisaded corral back of the camp at which they were to stay, they

three set out for the canyon's edge chattering, and stopped dumb.

Mr. Boltwood declined to descend. He returned to the camp for a cigar.

The boy and girl crept down seeming miles of damp steps to an outhanging

pinnacle that still was miles of empty airy drop above the river bed.

Claire had a quaking feeling that this rock pulpit was going to slide.

She thrust out her hand, seized Milt's paw, and in its firm warmth found

comfort. Clinging to its security she followed him by the crawling path

to the river below. She looked up at columns of crimson and saffron and

burning brown, up at the matronly falls, up at lone pines clinging to

jutting rocks that must be already crashing toward her, and in the

splendor she knew the Panic fear that is the deepest reaction to

beauty.

Milt merely shook his head as he stared up. He had neither gossiped nor

coyly squeezed her hand as he had guided her. She fell to thinking that

she preferred this American boy in this American scene to a nimble

gentleman saluting the Alps in a dinky green hat with a little feather.

It was Milt who, when they had labored back up again, when they had sat

smiling at each other with comfortable weariness, made her see the

canyon not as a freak, but as the miraculous work of a stream rolling

grains of sand for millions of years, till it had cut this Jovian

intaglio. He seemed to have read--whether in books, or in paragraphs in

mechanical magazines--a good deal about geology. He made it real. Not

that she paid much attention to what he actually said! She was too busy

thinking of the fact that he should say it at all.

Not condescendingly but very companionably she accompanied Milt in the

exploration of their camp for the night--the big dining tent, the city

of individual bedroom tents, canvas-sided and wooden-floored, each with

a tiny stove for the cold mornings of these high altitudes. She was awed

that evening by hearing her waitress discussing the novels of Ibanez.

Jeff Saxton knew the names of at least six Russian novelists, but Jeff

was not highly authoritative regarding Spanish literature.

"I suppose she's a school-teacher, working here in vacation," Claire

whispered to Milt, beside her at the long, busy, scenically

conversational table.

"Our waitress? Well, sort of. I understand she's professor of literature

in some college," said Milt, in a matter of fact way. And he didn't at

all see the sequence when she went on: "There is an America! I'm glad I've found it!"




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