308 THE MOUNTAINS OF CALIFOKNIA 



by a strong, warm mother, defended from the talons 

 of the eagle and the teeth of the sly coyote, the bonny 

 lamb grows apace. He soon learns to nibble the 

 tufted rock-grasses and leaves of the white spiraea ; 

 his horns begin to shoot, and before summer is 

 done he is strong and agile, and goes forth with the 

 flock, watched by the same divine love that tends 

 the more helpless human lamb in its cradle by the 

 fireside. 



Nothing is more commonly remarked by noisy, 

 dusty trail-travelers in the Sierra than the want of 

 animal life no song-birds, no deer, no squirrels, 

 no game of any kind, they say. But if such could 

 only go away quietly into the wilderness, saunter 

 ing afoot and alone with natural deliberation, they 

 would soon learn that these mountain mansions are 

 not without inhabitants, many of whom, confiding 

 and gentle, would not try to shun their acquaintance. 



In the fall of 1873 I was tracing the South Fork 

 of the San Joaquin up its wild canon to its farth 

 est glacier fountains. It was the season of alpine 

 Indian summer. The sun beamed lovingly; the 

 squirrels were nutting in the pine-trees, butterflies 

 hovered about the last of the goldenrods, the wil 

 low and maple thickets were yellow, the meadows 

 brown, and the whole sunny, mellow landscape 

 glowed like a countenance in the deepest and 

 sweetest repose. On my way over the glacier-pol 

 ished rocks along the river, I came to an expanded 

 portion of the canon, about two miles long and half 

 a mile wide, which formed a level park inclosed 

 with picturesque granite walls like those of Yo- 

 semite Valley. Down through the middle of it 



