In the Sierra 



manufactured, made less by God than man, 

 born out of time and place, yet their voices 

 are strangely human and call out one's pity. 



Our way is still along the Merced and 

 Tuolumne divide, the streams on our right 

 going to swell the songful Yosemite River, 

 those on our left to the songful Tuolumne, 

 slipping through sunny carex and lily 

 meadows, and breaking into song down a 

 thousand ravines almost as soon as they are v 

 born. A more tuneful set of streams surely 

 nowhere exists, or more sparkling crystal 

 pure, now gliding with tinkling whisper, 

 now with merry dimpling rush, in and out 

 through sunshine and shade, shimmering 

 in pools, uniting their currents, bouncing, 

 dancing from form to form over cliffs and 

 inclines, ever more beautiful the farther 

 they go until they pour into the main gla- 

 cial rivers. 



All day I have been gazing in growing 

 admiration at the noble groups of the mag- 

 nificent silver fir which more and more is 

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