p and the river, among tall grass and fallen pines, I
discovered a baby fawn. At first it seemed inclined to come to me; but
when I tried to catch it, and got within a rod or two, it turned and
walked softly away, choosing its steps like a cautious, stealthy,
hunting cat. Then, as if suddenly called or alarmed, it began to buck
and run like a grown deer, jumping high above the fallen trunks, and was
soon out of sight. Possibly its mother may have called it, but I did not
hear her. I don't think fawns ever leave the home thicket or follow
their mothers until they are called or frightened. I am distressed about
Carlo. There are several other camps and dogs not many miles from here,
and I still hope to find him. He never left me before. Panthers are very
rare here, and I don't think any of these cats would dare touch him. He
knows bears too well to be caught by them, and as for Indians, they
don't want him.

_August 23._ Cool, bright day, hinting Indian summer. Mr. Delaney has
gone to the Smith Ranch, on the Tuolumne below Hetch-Hetchy Valley,
thirty-five or forty miles from here, so I'll be alone for a week or
more,--not really alone, for Carlo has come back. He was at a camp a few
miles to the northwestward. He looked sheepish and ashamed when I asked
him where he had been and why he had gone away without leave. He is now
trying to get me to caress him and show signs of forgiveness. A wondrous
wise dog. A great load is off my mind. I could not have left the
mountains without him. He seems very glad to get back to me.

Rose and crimson sunset, and soon after the stars appeared the moon rose
in most impressive majesty over the top of Mount Dana. I sauntered up
the meadow in the white light. The jet-black tree-shadows were so
wonderfully distinct and substantial looking, I often stepped high in
crossing them, taking them for black charred logs.

_August 24._ Another charming day, warm and calm soon after sunrise,
clouds only about .01,--faint, silky cirrus wisps, scarcely visible.
Slight frost, Indian summerish, the mountains growing softer in outline
and dreamy looking, their rough angles melted off, apparently. Sky at
evening with fine, dark, subdued purple, almost like the evening purple
of the San Joaquin plains in settled weather. The moon is now gazing
over the summit of Dana. Glorious exhilarating air. I wonder if in all
the world there is another mountain range of equal height blessed with
weather so fine, and so