168 East and West 
hermit is singing in the pines, rapt and un- 
worldly as are all his race. What has he to 
do with the sorrows of Earth, who sings ever 
of some more heavenly world? While riding 
along the mountainside, a mountain partridge 
suddenly appeared with her brood of a dozen 
chicks. One glimpse was all I had of the 
chicks for almost instantly they seemed to 
become invisible, while the mother exerted 
herself in the usual way to attract and hold 
the attention, not knowing, poor thing, how 
friendly indeed was my feeling for her, my 
admiration, not only for the beauty of her 
feathers, but for her Christian character as 
well. 
Another week finds me at Tahoe, still on 
familiar ground. Twenty-three years ago, 
tramping over the trail from Soda Springs to 
Truckee, I descended one evening out of the 
silent mountains into that crude and flaring 
frontier town, which, on the edge of the Sierra, 
sat like a blemish on a beautiful face. From 
there a stage road led through the forest beside 
the Truckee River to the lake. Truckee 
does not appear to have changed much for 
the better, but the Truckee River, is still 
beautiful. Itis an ideal trout stream in which 
to cast a fly and the sight of it has stirred the 
