FIELD-DAYS IN CALIFORNIA 



warmer days would melt the mountain snow 

 more rapidly, and the bulk of the water would be 

 so increased that no ordinary wind could lift it. 

 This, also, was shown to be correct, unreasonable 

 as it had sounded, — the more water, the less 

 noise. And after all, when I came to consider 

 the subject, it was only giving a new twist to an 

 old proverb, "Still waters run deep." 



My first considerable climb was an unpremedi- 

 tated trip to the top of Nevada Fall. I took the 

 trail at the head of the Valley, close by the 

 Happy Isles, some three miles from camp, with 

 no intention of doing more than try what it 

 might be like ; but an upward-leading path is of 

 itself an eloquent, almost irresistible, persuasion, 

 and, one turn after another, I kept on, the ravish- 

 ing wildness of the Merced Canon, and the sight 

 and sound of the Merced River raging among the 

 rocks, getting more and more hold upon me, till 

 all at once the winding path made a short descent, 

 and behold, I was on a bridge over the river ; and 

 yonder, all unexpected, only a little distance up 

 the foaming rapids, through the loveliest vista 

 of sombre evergreens and bright, newly leaved, 

 yellow-green maples, was a fall, far less high than 

 the Yosemite, to be sure, but even more grace- 

 ful in its proportions (breadth and height being 

 better related), and so wondrously set or framed 

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