In the Sierra 



holding half a drop as well as lake basins 

 between the hills, each replenished with 

 equal care, every drop in all the blessed 

 throng a silvery newborn star with lake and 

 river, garden and grove, valley and moun- 

 tain, all that the landscape holds reflected 

 in its crystal depths, God's messenger, angel 

 of love sent on its way with majesty and 

 pomp and display of power that make 

 man's greatest shows ridiculous. 



Now the storm is over, the skv is clear, 



* j 



the last rolling thunder-wave is spent on 

 the peaks, and where are the raindrops 

 now what has become of all the shining 

 throng? In winged vapor rising some are 

 already hastening back to the sky, some have 

 gone into the plants, creeping through in- 

 visible doors into the round rooms of cells, 

 some are locked in crystals of ice, some in 

 rock crystals, some in porous moraines to 

 keep their small springs flowing, some have 

 gone journeying on in the rivers to join the 

 larger raindrop of the ocean. From form 



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