Dutch Flat—A Retrospect 167 
ing in glacial meadows; the castilleia, too, 
that flower of the West, that bit of barbaric 
colour gleaming in the chaparral? Certain 
flowers, like certain people, one never forgets. 
Something about the plant, a personal trait 
as it were, makes a lasting impression. Of 
those recalled, I associate above all, the mari- 
posa, the lavender daisy, pussies’-paws, and 
the Indian pink with the Sierra—above all, 
save one, the snow plant which is to the Sierra 
what the edelweiss is to the Alps. Here isa 
plant as distinctive, as completely individual, 
as any in the mountains, a splendid creature 
glowing scarlet on the edge of snowdrifts at 
the foot of granite domes or among the silver 
firs, and that plant will ever be linked in my 
mind with the beautiful region where there 
are no fences. 
Red-backed juncos are nesting here and 
lazuli finches, but birds do not seem abun- 
dant. ‘Towards sundown, the doves call and 
the mountains re-echo with their melancholy 
notes. Throughout the Sierras and down the 
whole length of the Sierra Madre in Mexico, 
the sad-voiced doves are cooing, the insistent 
minor note of the Western mountains, as of 
some primeval sorrow to which this gentle 
race for ever gives expression. A Western 
