A YOSEM1TE IDYL 



THE fresh fingers of dawn silently slipped aside the black 

 robes of the night, and it was day. The same still fingers 

 snuffed out the star-candles of the dark, for the sunlight had 

 come full-flare. Dewdrops flashed in the valley like frost- 

 flakes in the sun. The green grass was agleam with the 

 glory of light. Birds twittered and trilled and mingled their 

 music with the beams of the morning. Dear old Yosemite is 

 young again, for blown from her lips is the breath of the 

 dawn. 





MERCED RIVER 



