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contained not one poor little range, but 
range after range of snowcaps, dropping 
away in endless procession. Gray patches 
of sky and banks of giant pines marked 
the valleys, rich with spring verdure and 
sparkling with many streams. These were 
not mere slits in the hills, but big, lusty 
valleys, where pine, spruce and fir, hoary 
with age in the days of the forty niners, 
were still rank with life. The sentinel 
peaks, rough, jagged and snowcapped, 
formed a contrast seldom seen in land- 
scapes. 
Several little lakes lay half hidden in the 
sinks between the peaks. These, as well 
as every 1unning stredm, were full of trout, 
speckled and rainbow; both with a fight- 
ing capacity when hooked that was all but 
marvelous. 
RECREATION. 
The sweep of the eye revealed numerous 
little villages that to the amateur moun- 
taineer seemed ridiculously close together, 
but those of us who had spent a chilly night 
in the open air because of this optical de- 
lusion, still held a vivid appreciation of the 
distances between them. 
From every point of vantage we looked 
our fill. We loosened great boulders that 
went tearing downward with the noise of 
thunder. After lunching in the shelter of a 
protecting crag, we took the downward 
path, following in the wake of the descend- 
ing sun, and just as he hid his face behind 
the snow crowned range, 60 miles to the 
Westward, we plunged swiftly down the 
shelving canyon wall into the valley of the 
shadow, where Tim and the dogs were 
waiting to give us a riotous welcome. 
SUMMER. 
WILLIAM R. BERRY. 
There ain’t no use a-talkin’ o’ the pleasures 
riches bring, 
Nor to spout ethereal exstacy like poet fel- 
lers sing; 
’Cause the novelty don’t las’ long when ye 
get all things ye need, 
An’ I never yet seen poetry as could make 
me change my lead. 
But jus’ gimme hot old summer when 
there’s nary thing to do, 
An’ the ol’ crick’s runnin’ slow like, kinder 
waitin’ jus’ for you; 
When the tree frog in the poplar keeps a- 
singin’ till he’s sung 
That ye wish he’d git pneumonia in his 
gol darn little lung. 
Then fix up yer fishin’ tackle an’ git on 
yer favorite log, 
An’ open up yer bait can an’ git out a kick- 
in’ frog; 
But ye soon git kinder tired while ye sit 
up there an’ wait, 
Fer some ’vestigatin’ cat fish to swim up 
an’ take yer bait. 
So ye lay back ’ginst a tree trunk an’ look 
up in the sky, 
An’ ye wonder how that buzzard gits an- 
chored there so high; 
But ye soon git kinder sleepy an’ begin to 
doze an’ nod, 
While the water keeps a-tinklin’ an’ the 
frogs croak in the bog. 

AMATEUR PHOTO BY S, L. BEEGLE +ND W. +. 
MAURER. 
LIVE WILD MALE WOOD DUCK. 
The camera was focused on the grass spot in the daytime and the flashlight was made at midnight. 
