THE FORESTS OF THE YOSEMITE PARK 135 



The poor bit of measured time was soon spent, 

 and while the saddles were being adjusted I again 

 urged Emerson to stay. " You are yourself a 

 sequoia," I said. " Stop and get acquainted with 

 your big brethren." But he was past his prime, 

 and was now as a child in the hands of his affec- 

 tionate but sadly civilized friends, who seemed as 

 full of old-fashioned conformity as of bold intel- 

 lectual independence. It was the afternoon of 

 the day and the afternoon of his life, and his 

 course was now westward down all the mountains 

 into the sunset. The party mounted and rode 

 away in wondrous contentment, apparently, 

 tracing the trail through ceanothus and dog- 

 wood bushes, around the bases of the big trees, 

 up the slope of the sequoia basin, and over the 

 divide. I followed to the edge of the grove. 

 Emerson lingered in the rear of the tram, and 

 when he reached the top of the ridge, after all the 

 rest of the party were over and out of sight, he 

 turned his horse, took off his hat and waved me 

 a last good-by. I felt lonely, so sure had I been 

 that Emerson of all men would be the quickest 

 to see the mountains and sing them. Gazing 

 awhile on the spot where he vanished, I sauntered 

 back into the heart of the grove, made a bed of 

 sequoia plumes and ferns by the side of a stream, 

 gathered a store of firewood, and then walked 

 about until sundown. The birds, robins, thrushes, 

 warblers, etc., that had kept out of sight, came 



