On all sides streams tear down over beds of the loose shingle, of which they carry away thousands of tons winter after winter.

Their brawling is perhaps the only sound you will hear through slow-footed afternoons, save, always, the whistle or sighing of the persistent wind.

A stunted beech bush clothes the spurs here and there, growing short and thick as a fleece of dark wool.

After a storm the snow will lie powdering the green beech trees, making the rocks gleam frostily and sharpening the savage ridges till they look like the jagged edges of stone axes.
Only at nightfall in summer do the mountains take a softer aspect.
Then in the evening stillness the great outlines show majesty; then in the silence after sunset rivers, winding among the ranges in many branches over broad, stony beds, fill the shadowy valleys with their hoarse murmur.
To the flock-owner, however, this severe region is what the beautiful West is not--it is useful.

Sheep can find pasture there.