XIII 



iPRIL was bidding high 

 Sierra snows go back 

 to Mother Sea. The 

 California woodwales 

 screamed in clamorous 

 joy. They thought it was about a few 

 acorns left in storage in the Live Oak 

 bark, but it really was joy of being alive. 

 This outcry was to them what music 

 is to the thrush, what joy-bells are 

 to us a great noise to tell how glad 

 they were. The deer were bounding, 

 grouse were booming, rills were rush- 



