a sunrise, gladly giving back the light slowly sifted from
the sunbeams of centuries of summers; and in the glow of that old
sunlight how impressively surrounding objects are brought forward in
relief against the outer darkness! Grasses, larkspurs, columbines,
lilies, hazel bushes, and the great trees form a circle around the fire
like thoughtful spectators, gazing and listening with human-like
enthusiasm. The night breeze is cool, for all day we have been climbing
into the upper sky, the home of the cloud mountains we so long have
admired. How sweet and keen the air! Every breath a blessing. Here the
sugar pine reaches its fullest development in size and beauty and number
of individuals, filling every swell and hollow and down-plunging ravine
almost to the exclusion of other species. A few yellow pines are still
to be found as companions, and in the coolest places silver firs; but
noble as these are, the sugar pine is king, and spreads long protecting
arms above them while they rock and wave in sign of recognition.

We have now reached a height of six thousand feet. In the forenoon we
passed along a flat part of the dividing ridge that is planted with
manzanita (_Arctostaphylos_), some specimens the largest I have seen. I
measured one, the bole of which is four feet in diameter and only
eighteen inches high from the ground, where it dissolves into many
wide-spreading branches forming a broad round head about ten or twelve
feet high, covered with clusters of small narrow-throated pink bells.
The leaves are pale green, glandular, and set on edge by a twist of the
petiole. The branches seem naked; for the chocolate-colored bark is very
smooth and thin, and is shed off in flakes that curl when dry. The wood
is red, close-grained, hard, and heavy. I wonder how old these curious
tree-bushes are, probably as old as the great pines. Indians and bears
and birds and fat grubs feast on the berries, which look like small
apples, often rosy on one side, green on the other. The Indians are said
to make a kind of beer or cider out of them. There are many species.
This one, _Arctostaphylos pungens_, is common hereabouts. No need have
they to fear the wind, so low they are and steadfastly rooted. Even the
fires that sweep the woods seldom destroy them utterly, for they rise
again from the root, and some of the dry ridges they grow on are seldom
touched by fire. I must try to know them better.

I miss my river songs to-night. Here Hazel