hungry sheep, in great part misbegotten,
without good right to be, semi-manufactured, made less by God than man,
born out of time and place, yet their voices are strangely human and
call out one's pity.

Our way is still along the Merced and Tuolumne divide, the streams on
our right going to swell the songful Yosemite River, those on our left
to the songful Tuolumne, slipping through sunny carex and lily meadows,
and breaking into song down a thousand ravines almost as soon as they
are born. A more tuneful set of streams surely nowhere exists, or more
sparkling crystal pure, now gliding with tinkling whisper, now with
merry dimpling rush, in and out through sunshine and shade, shimmering
in pools, uniting their currents, bouncing, dancing from form to form
over cliffs and inclines, ever more beautiful the farther they go until
they pour into the main glacial rivers.

All day I have been gazing in growing admiration at the noble groups of
the magnificent silver fir which more and more is taking the ground to
itself. The woods above Crane Flat still continue comparatively open,
letting in the sunshine on the brown needle-strewn ground. Not only are
the individual trees admirable in symmetry and superb in foliage and
port, but half a dozen or more often form temple groves in which the
trees are so nicely graded in size and position as to seem one. Here,
indeed, is the tree-lover's paradise. The dullest eye in the world must
surely be quickened by such trees as these.

Fortunately the sheep need little attention, as they are driven slowly
and allowed to nip and nibble as they like. Since leaving Hazel Green we
have been following the Yosemite trail; visitors to the famous valley
coming by way of Coulterville and Chinese Camp pass this way--the two
trails uniting at Crane Flat--and enter the valley on the north side.
Another trail enters on the south side by way of Mariposa. The tourists
we saw were in parties of from three or four to fifteen or twenty,
mounted on mules or small mustang ponies. A strange show they made,
winding single file through the solemn woods in gaudy attire, scaring
the wild creatures, and one might fancy that even the great pines would
be disturbed and groan aghast. But what may we say of ourselves and the
flock?

We are now camped at Tamarack Flat, within four or five miles of the
lower end of Yosemite. Here is another fine meadow embosomed in the
woods, with a deep, clear stream gliding through