at the summit of the sierra madre mountains picacho grande dotted here and there with sharply contrasting patches of glistening snow and clumps of dark brush lay before us it was scarcely higher than the surrounding peaks and was such a mod est round topped affair that the name picacho peak seemed very inappropriate the grade was so easy for the last half mile that we galloped our ponies right to the summit ; but on reaching it we stopped short and drew back aghast — we were high above everything and in front of us was a mist-filled chasm it seemed that the highest breeze from behind might topple us head long into space across to the west shrouded in a blue haze was a black wall of mountain with a still blacker rent breaking its evenness soon the bright sun partly cleared the mist from below and we could make out down down almost di rectly under us a winding thread of silver by means of field-glasses we saw that the tiny thread was a tumbling surging river leaping high cataracts here and racing down smooth rapids there or spreading out in a wide quiet stream on the banks in little canyons were clumps of tropical trees and we could easily imagine that rich fruits hung from the branches and that gay colored birds hopped from limb to limb making the valley echo with their wild cries we thought of sunshine and warmth but the dazzling sun only mocked us the light breeze which began to blow caused us to button our over-coats tighter and to seek a protected nook where we lighted a roaring fire | the ac the box-elder swing the ropes are decayed with a cover of moss the swing-board is worm-saten dingy and cracked and i gaze from a world full of evil and dross where the box-elder swing seems to beckon me back back back to my happy young boyhood once more to wander again where the meadow larks sing back back to the old times and the pleasures of yore to the primeval woods and the box-elder swing i can hear its faint creak in the summer winds sigh as it longs for the sweet thirty summers ago and the robin seems singing a faint lullaby as time softly rocks the old swing to and fro the brook babbles on in its journey to fate but its echoes remain thro the woodlands to ring fancy hears the same blue-bird respond to his mate that i heard when i played at the box-elder swing the wild summer-roses are smiling again the sweet little mary golds nod to the breeze