is made. About two thirds of the way down,
the hurrying throng of comet-shaped masses glance on an inclined part of
the face of the precipice and are beaten into yet whiter foam, greatly
expanded, and sent bounding outward, making an indescribably glorious
show, especially when the afternoon sunshine is pouring into it. In this
fall--one of the most wonderful in the world--the water does not seem to
be under the dominion of ordinary laws, but rather as if it were a
living creature, full of the strength of the mountains and their huge,
wild joy.

From beneath heavy throbbing blasts of spray the broken river is seen
emerging in ragged boulder-chafed strips. These are speedily gathered
into a roaring torrent, showing that the young river is still gloriously
alive. On it goes, shouting, roaring, exulting in its strength, passes
through a gorge with sublime display of energy, then suddenly expands on
a gently inclined pavement, down which it rushes in thin sheets and
folds of lace-work into a quiet pool,--"Emerald Pool," as it is
called,--a stopping-place, a period separating two grand sentences.
Resting here long enough to part with its foam-bells and gray mixtures
of air, it glides quietly to the verge of the Vernal precipice in a
broad sheet and makes its new display in the Vernal Fall; then more
rapids and rock tossings down the canyon, shaded by live oak, Douglas
spruce, fir, maple, and dogwood. It receives the Illilouette tributary,
and makes a long sweep out into the level, sun-filled valley to join the
other streams which, like itself, have danced and sung their way down
from snowy heights to form the main Merced--the river of Mercy. But of
this there is no end, and life, when one thinks of it, is so short.
Never mind, one day in the midst of these divine glories is well worth
living and toiling and starving for.

Before parting with Professor Butler he gave me a book, and I gave him
one of my pencil sketches for his little son Henry, who is a favorite
of mine. He used to make many visits to my room when I was a student.
Never shall I forget his patriotic speeches for the Union, mounted on a
tall stool, when he was only six years old.

It seems strange that visitors to Yosemite should be so little
influenced by its novel grandeur, as if their eyes were bandaged and
their ears stopped. Most of those I saw yesterday were looking down as
if wholly unconscious of anything going on about them, while the sublime
rocks w