In the Sierra 



higher, almost at the very head of the pass, 

 I found the blue arctic daisy and purple- 

 flowered bryanthus, the mountain's own 

 darlings, gentle mountaineers face to face 

 with the sky, kept safe and warm by a thou- 

 sand miracles, seeming always the finer and 

 purer the wilder and stormier their homes. 

 The trees, tough and resiny, seem unable to 

 go a step farther ; but up and up, far above the 

 tree-line*, these tender plants climb, cheerily 

 spreading their gray and pink carpets right 

 up to the very edges of the snow-banks in 

 deep hollows and shadows. Here, too, is the 

 familiar robin, tripping on the flowery lawns, 

 bravely singing the same cheery song I first 

 heard when a boy in Wisconsin newly arrived 

 from old Scotland. In this fine company 

 sauntering enchanted, taking no heed of 

 time, I at length entered the gate of the 

 pass, and the huge rocks began to close 

 around me in all their mysterious impres- 

 siveness. Just then I was startled by a lot 

 of queer, hairy, muffled creatures coming 

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