Here and there on the higher uplands appeared
strange rock shapes of red and pink and pale yellow, which looked like
castles with towers and pinnacles, or like primitive fortifications.
Clover thought it all strangely beautiful, but Mrs. Watson found fault
with it as "queer."
"It looks unnatural, somehow," she objected; "not a bit like the East. Red
never was a favorite color of mine. Ellen had a magenta bonnet once, and
it always worried--But Henry liked it, so of course--People can't see
things the same way. Now the green hat she had winter before last
was--Don't you think those mountains are dreadfully bright and distinct? I
don't like such high-colored rocks. Even the green looks red, somehow. I
like soft, hazy mountains like Blue Hill and Wachusett. Ellen spent a
summer up at Princeton once. It was when little Cynthia had
diphtheria--she's named after me, you know, and Henry he thought--But I
don't like the staring kind like these; and somehow those buildings, which
the conductor says are not buildings but rocks, make my flesh creep."
"They'd be scrumptious places to repel attacks of Indians from," observed
Phil; "two or three scouts with breech-loaders up on that scarlet wall
there could keep off a hundred Piutes."
"I don't feel that way a bit," Clover was saying to Mrs. Watson. "I like
the color, it's so rich; and I think the mountains are perfectly
beautiful.
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