The Desire of the Moth; and The Come On

Excerpt

Close behind, Organ Mountain flung up a fantasy of spires, needle-sharp and bare and golden.  The long straight range—­saw-toothed limestone save for this twenty-mile sheer upheaval of the Organ—­stretched away to north and south against the unclouded sky, till distance turned the barren gray to blue-black, to blue, to misty haze; till the sharp, square-angled masses rounded to hillocks—­to a blur—­a wavy line—­nothing.