My First Summer 



Indian to assist in driving for the first few 

 days in the brushy foothills, and myself with 

 notebook tied to my belt. 



The home ranch from which we set out 

 is on the south side of the Tuolumne River 

 near French Bar, where the foothills of 

 metamorphic gold-bearing slates dip below 

 the stratified deposits of the Central Valley. 

 We had not gone more than a mile before 

 some of the old leaders of the flock showed 

 by the eager, inquiring way they ran and 

 looked ahead that they were thinking of 

 the high pastures they had enjoyed last sum- 

 mer. Soon the whole flock seemed to be 

 hopefully excited, the mothers calling their 

 lambs, the lambs replying in tones wonder- 

 fully human, their fondly quavering calls in- 

 terrupted now and then by hastily snatched 

 mouthfuls of withered grass. Amid all this 

 seeming babel of baas as they streamed over 

 the hills every mother and child recognized 

 each other's voice. In case a tired lamb, 

 half asleep in the smothering dust, should 

 [8] 



