114 THE MOUNTAINS OF CALIFORNIA 



purple. The walls, too, are dashed with bits of 

 bright color that gleam out on the neutral granite 

 gray. But neither the walls, nor the margin 

 meadow, nor yet the gay, fluttering grove in which 

 you stand, nor the lake itself, flashing with spangles, 

 can long hold your attention; for at the head of 

 the lake there is a gorgeous mass of orange-yellow, 

 belonging to the main aspen belt of the basin, which 

 seems the very fountain whence all the color below 

 it had flowed, and here your eye is filled and fixed. 

 This glorious mass is about thirty feet high, and ex 

 tends across the basin nearly from wall to wall. 

 Rich bosses of willow flame in front of it, and from 

 the base of these the brown meadow comes forward 

 to the water's edge, the whole being relieved against 

 the unyielding green of the coniferse, while thick 

 sun-gold is poured over all. 



During these blessed color-days no cloud darkens 

 the sky, the winds are gentle, and the landscape 

 rests, hushed everywhere, and indescribably impres 

 sive. A few ducks are usually seen sailing on the 

 lake, apparently more for pleasure than anything 

 else, and the ouzels at the head of the rapids sing 

 always; while robins, grosbeaks, and the Douglas 

 squirrels are busy in the groves, making delightful 

 company, and intensifying the feeling of grateful 

 sequestration without ruffling the deep, hushed 

 calm and peace. 



This autumnal mellowness usually lasts until the 

 end of November. Then come days of quite another 

 kind. The winter clouds grow, and bloom, and shed 

 their starry crystals on every leaf and rock, and all 

 the colors vanish like a sunset. The deer gather 



