In the Sierra 



The California gray is one of the most 

 beautiful, and, next to the Douglas, the 

 most interesting of our hairy neighbors. 

 Compared with the Douglas he is twice as 

 large, but far less lively and influential as 

 a worker in the woods, and he manages to 

 make his way through leaves and branches 

 with less stir than his small brother. I have 

 never heard him bark at anything except 

 our dogs. When in search of food he glides 

 silently from branch to branch, examining 

 last year's cones, to see whether some few 

 seeds may not be left between the scales, 

 or gleans fallen ones among the leaves on 

 the ground, since none of the present sea- 

 son's crop is yet available. His tail floats 

 now behind him, now above him, level 

 or gracefully curled like a wisp of cirrus 

 cloud, every hair in its place, clean and 

 shining and radiant as thistle-down in spite 

 of rough, gummy work. His whole body 

 seems about as unsubstantial as his tail. The 

 little Douglas is fiery, peppery, full of brag 

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