In the Sierra 



finishes its wild course in a grand leap of 

 three hundred feet or more to the bottom 

 of the main Yosemite canon near the fall 

 of Tamarack Creek, a few miles below 

 the foot of the valley. These falls almost 

 rival some of the far-famed Yosemite falls. 

 Never shall I forget these glad cascade songs, 

 the low booming, the roaring, the keen, sil- 

 very clashing of the cool water rushing exult- 

 ing from form to form beneath irised spray ; 

 or in the deep still night seen white in the 

 darkness, and its multitude of voices sound- 

 ing still more impressively sublime. Here 

 I find the little water ouzel as much at home 

 as any linnet in a leafy grove, seeming to 

 take the greater delight the more boisterous 

 the stream. The dizzy precipices, the swift 

 dashing energy displayed, and the thunder 

 tones of the sheer falls are awe inspiring, but 

 there is nothing awful about this little bird. 

 Its song is sweet and low, and all its gestures, 

 as it flits about amid the loud uproar, bespeak 

 strength and peace and joy. Contemplating 



