view, offering to watch the sheep for a day, while he
should enjoy what tourists come from all over the world to see. But
though within a mile of the famous valley, he will not go to it even out
of mere curiosity. "What," says he, "is Yosemite but a canyon--a lot of
rocks--a hole in the ground--a place dangerous about falling into--a
d----d good place to keep away from." "But think of the waterfalls,
Billy--just think of that big stream we crossed the other day, falling
half a mile through the air--think of that, and the sound it makes. You
can hear it now like the roar of the sea." Thus I pressed Yosemite upon
him like a missionary offering the gospel, but he would have none of it.
"I should be afraid to look over so high a wall," he said. "It would
make my head swim. There is nothing worth seeing anywhere, only rocks,
and I see plenty of them here. Tourists that spend their money to see
rocks and falls are fools, that's all. You can't humbug me. I've been in
this country too long for that." Such souls, I suppose, are asleep, or
smothered and befogged beneath mean pleasures and cares.

_July 25._ Another cloudland. Some clouds have an over-ripe decaying
look, watery and bedraggled and drawn out into wind-torn shreds and
patches, giving the sky a littered appearance; not so these Sierra
summer midday clouds. All are beautiful with smooth definite outlines
and curves like those of glacier-polished domes. They begin to grow
about eleven o'clock, and seem so wonderfully near and clear from this
high camp one is tempted to try to climb them and trace the streams that
pour like cataracts from their shadowy fountains. The rain to which they
give birth is often very heavy, a sort of waterfall as imposing as if
pouring from rock mountains. Never in all my travels have I found
anything more truly novel and interesting than these midday mountains of
the sky, their fine tones of color, majestic visible growth, and
ever-changing scenery and general effects, though mostly as well let
alone as far as description goes. I oftentimes think of Shelley's cloud
poem, "I sift the snow on the mountains below."

CHAPTER VI

MOUNT HOFFMAN AND LAKE TENAYA

_July 26._ Ramble to the summit of Mount Hoffman, eleven thousand feet
high, the highest point in life's journey my feet have yet touched. And
what glorious landscapes are about me, new plants, new animals, new
crystals, and multitudes of new mountains far higher than Hoffman,
to