Heaven comes in may shapes and sizes. The heaven of the Eskimos, they say, is hot; The Arabs' is cool, with dancing girls. But give me a blue mountain lake at the end of a long climb. Frame it with timber untouched by the ax. Fill it with brook trout, deep-keeled, orange bellied, ready to the fly. Let the sun be warm after swimming and let the nights be cold under the stars. Let the first ray of morning light strike the snowfields of the western peaks; let the long clear note of the varied thrush announce the day.