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Updated: June 7, 2025
Who once hath stood through the loaded hour Ere, roaring like the gale, The Harrild and the Hoe devour Their league-long paper bale, And has lit his pipe in the morning calm That follows the midnight stress He hath sold his heart to the old Black Art We call the daily Press. Who once hath dealt in the widest game That all of a man can play, No later love, no larger fame Will lure him long away.
A rose-red horizon lay far below and to the eastward; the intervening descent was like a rolling sea with league-long swells. "Glad you slept some," was Naab's greeting. "No sign of Dene yet. If we can get over the divide we're safe. That's Coconina there, Fire Mountain in Navajo meaning. It's a plateau low and narrow at this end, but it runs far to the east and rises nine thousand feet.
The words floated out across the lawn towards the wall of blue darkness where the big Forest swept the little garden with its league-long curve that was like the shore-line of a sea. A wave of distant sound that was like surf accompanied his voice, as though the wind was fain to listen too: The voice of Mrs. Bittacy presently broke the silence that followed.
One must be a pessimist indeed to feel no exhilaration on coming in contact with such intensity of upward-striving life as meets one on every hand in this league-long island city, stretching oceanward between her eastern Sound and her western estuary, and roofed by a radiant dome of smokeless sky.
South, on the windward side, opened a wide bay, Smugglers Cove by name, and it was infinitely more beautiful than its name. A great curve indented the league-long slope of island, at each end of which low, ragged lines of black rock jutted out into the sea.
And Slone, facing the league-long shadows of the monuments, rode out again into the silent, solemn day, on his hopeless quest. For a change Wildfire had climbed high up a slope of talus, through a narrow pass, rounded over with drifting sand. And Slone gazed down into a huge amphitheater full of monuments, like all that strange country. A basin three miles across lay beneath him.
More dusky grew the purple of the upper mists whose upright layers, like league-long wings of softest feather held edge downward to the earth, ever changed in form without apparent movement. More sparkling glowed the gold upon their edges. The sky beneath the cloud was now like emerald. The soft darkness of purple slate was on the hills.
Soon he came to a break in the forest level, from which he gazed down a league-long slope of pine and cedar, out upon the bare, glistening desert, stretching away, endlessly rolling out to the dim, dark horizon line. The little hamlet of Pine lay on the last level of sparsely timbered forest.
The great valley must once have been a plateau of red rock from which the softer strata had eroded, leaving the gentle league-long slopes marked here and there by upstanding pillars and columns of singular shape and beauty. I rode down the sweet-scented sage-slopes under the shadow of the lofty Mittens, and around and across the valley, and back again to the height of land.
Behind was a sweeping monotony of verdure stretching back into the great valley of the Popri, and over all the heavy languor of the South. But the beauty was a delusion. When John Osgood's small boat swept up the sands on the white crest of a league-long roller, how different was the scene!
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