In the Sierra 



Now comes sundown. The west is all a 

 glory of color transfiguring everything. Far 

 up the Pilot Peak Ridge the radiant host of 

 trees stand hushed and thoughtful, receiving 

 the Sun's good-night, as solemn and impres- 

 sive a leave-taking as if sun and trees were to 

 meet no more. The daylight fades, the color 

 spell is broken, and the forest breathes free 

 in the night breeze beneath the stars. 



June 1 6. One of the Indians from 

 Brown's Flat got right into the middle of 

 the camp this morning, unobserved. I was 

 seated on a stone, looking over my notes and 

 sketches, and happening to look up, was 

 startled to see him standing grim and silent 

 within a few steps of me, as motionless and 

 weather-stained as an old tree-stump that had 

 stood there for centuries. All Indians seem 

 to have learned this wonderful way of walk- 

 ing unseen, making themselves invisible 

 like certain spiders I have been observing 

 here, which, in case of alarm, caused, for ex- 

 ample, by a bird alighting on the bush their 



