My First Summer 



lapping plumes make fine beds, and must 

 shed the rain well. It would be delightful 

 to be storm-bound beneath one of these 

 noble, hospitable, inviting old trees, its broad 

 sheltering arms bent down like a tent, in- 

 cense rising from the fire made from its dry 

 fallen branches, and a hearty wind chanting 

 overhead. But the weather is calm to-night, 

 and our camp is only a sheep camp. We are 

 near the North Fork of the Merced. The 

 night wind is telling the wonders of the 

 upper mountains, their snow fountains and 

 gardens, forests and groves; even their to- 

 pography is in its tones. And the stars, the 

 everlasting sky lilies, how bright they are 

 now that we have climbed above the low- 

 land dust ! The horizon is bounded and 

 adorned by a spiry wall of pines, every tree 

 harmoniously related to every other; defi- 

 nite symbols, divine hieroglyphics written 

 with sunbeams. Would I could understand 

 them ! The stream flowing past the camp 

 through ferns and lilies and alders makes 

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