An Appreciation 



27 



beside us. Four days later I made of it this poem, which offers 

 something of what he said, though his free biblical rhythms feel 

 somewhat cramped in my rhymes, and it was I who dragged the 

 human beings in : 



It is creation's morning — 



Freshly the rivers run. 

 The cliffs, white brows adorning, 



Sing to the shining sun. 



The forest, plumed and crested, 

 Scales the steep granite wall. 



The ranged peaks, glacier-breasted, 

 March to the festival. 



The mountains dance together, 

 Lifting their domed heads high. 



The cataract's foamy feather 

 Flaunts in the streaming sky. 



Somewhere a babe is horning. 



Somewhere a maid is won. 

 It is creation's morning — 



Now is the world begun. 



A few days later we took the "long, long hike," as my diary 

 records it, from Lake Merced to Tuolumne Meadows. Before 

 many hours I met John Muir, who insisted on my riding his 

 horse most of the time; and so it was in his company that I 

 crossed the wet snows and slushy waters of Vogelsang Pass. 

 He introduced me to that lady of the snows, the mountain hem- 

 lock, who was just then lifting her head from under the white 

 weight of winter, and spreading her trailing garments in the 

 sun. He told me how she pushed out of the rock and grew, how 

 she bowed to the wind and gently resisted the storm ; how she 

 bent under mountain-loads of ice each year, and rose again to 

 the beauty of the sun for a brief summer of joy. He described 

 her moods, revealed her graces — gave me her individuality, her 

 character, until I felt something of his love and intimacy. "You 



