In the Sierra 



growing on deposits of soil most of which 

 has been laid down by this same ice agent 

 in the form of moraines of different sorts, 

 now in great part disintegrated and out- 

 spread by post-glacial weathering. 



Out of the grassy meadow and down 

 over this ice-planed granite runs the glad 

 young Tamarack Creek, rejoicing, exulting, 

 chanting, dancing in white, glowing, irised 

 falls and cascades oh its way to the Merced 

 Canon, a few miles below Yosemite, fall- 

 ing more than three thousand feet in a dis- 

 tance of about two miles. 



All the Merced streams are wonderful 

 singers, and Yosemite is the centre where 

 the main tributaries meet. From a point 

 about half a mile from our camp we can 

 see into the lower end of the famous valley, 

 with its wonderful cliffs and groves, a grand 

 page of mountain manuscript that I would 

 gladly give my life to be able to read. How 

 vast it seems, how short human life when 

 we happen to think of it, and how little we 



J 



