In the Sierra 



ience. It has the oddest, daintiest mincing 

 manners imaginable; and the little fellow 

 can sing too, a sweet, thrushy, fluty song, 

 rather low, not the least boisterous, and 

 much less keen and accentuated than from 

 its vigorous briskness one would be led to 

 look for. What a romantic life this little 



b 



bird leads on the most beautiful portions of 

 the streams, in a genial climate with shade 

 and cool water and spray to temper the 

 summer heat. No wonder it is a fine singer, 

 considering the stream songs it hears day 

 and night. Every breath the little poet 

 draws is part of a song, for all the air about 

 the rapids and falls is beaten into music, 

 and its first lessons must begin before it is 

 born by the thrilling and quivering of the 

 eggs in unison with the tones of the falls. I 

 have not yet found its nest, but it must be 

 near the streams, for it never leaves them. 



June 30. Half cloudy, half sunny, clouds 

 lustrous white. The tall pines crowded 

 along the top of the Pilot Peak Ridge look 



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