“There is a hitch about this sunrise somewhere.  It doesn’t seem to go.  What do you reckon is the matter with it?”

“I don’t know.  It appears to hang fire somewhere.  I never saw a sunrise act like that before.  Can it be that the hotel is playing anything on us?”

“Of course not.  The hotel merely has a property interest in the sun, it has nothing to do with the management of it.  It is a precarious kind of property, too; a succession of total eclipses would probably ruin this tavern.  Now what can be the matter with this sunrise?”

Harris jumped up and said: 

“I’ve got it!  I know what’s the matter with it!  We’ve been looking at the place where the sun set last night!”

“It is perfectly true!  Why couldn’t you have thought of that sooner?  Now we’ve lost another one!  And all through your blundering.  It was exactly like you to light a pipe and sit down to wait for the sun to rise in the west.”

“It was exactly like me to find out the mistake, too.  You never would have found it out.  I find out all the mistakes.”

“You make them all, too, else your most valuable faculty would be wasted on you.  But don’t stop to quarrel, now—­maybe we are not too late yet.”

But we were.  The sun was well up when we got to the exhibition-ground.

On our way up we met the crowd returning—­men and women dressed in all sorts of queer costumes, and exhibiting all degrees of cold and wretchedness in their gaits and countenances.  A dozen still remained on the ground when we reached there, huddled together about the scaffold with their backs to the bitter wind.  They had their red guide-books open at the diagram of the view, and were painfully picking out the several mountains and trying to impress their names and positions on their memories.  It was one of the saddest sights I ever saw.

Two sides of this place were guarded by railings, to keep people from being blown over the precipices.  The view, looking sheer down into the broad valley, eastward, from this great elevation—­almost a perpendicular mile—­was very quaint and curious.  Counties, towns, hilly ribs and ridges, wide stretches of green meadow, great forest tracts, winding streams, a dozen blue lakes, a block of busy steamboats—­we saw all this little world in unique circumstantiality of detail—­saw it just as the birds see it—­and all reduced to the smallest of scales and as sharply worked out and finished as a steel engraving.  The numerous toy villages, with tiny spires projecting out of them, were just as the children might have left them when done with play the day before; the forest tracts were diminished to cushions of moss; one or two big lakes were dwarfed to ponds, the smaller ones to puddles—­though they did not look like puddles, but like blue teardrops which had fallen and lodged in slight depressions, conformable to their shapes, among the moss-beds and the smooth levels of dainty green farm-land; the microscopic