by a hedge-like growth of
ceanothus chaparral. Carlo knew what I was about, and eagerly followed
the scent until we came up to them, huddled in a timid, silent bunch.
They had evidently been here all night and all the forenoon, afraid to
go out to feed. Having escaped restraint, they were, like some people we
know of, afraid of their freedom, did not know what to do with it, and
seemed glad to get back into the old familiar bondage.

_June 18._ Another inspiring morning, nothing better in any world can
be conceived. No description of Heaven that I have ever heard or read of
seems half so fine. At noon the clouds occupied about .05 of the sky,
white filmy touches drawn delicately on the azure.

The high ridges and hilltops beyond the woolly locusts are now gay with
monardella, clarkia, coreopsis, and tall tufted grasses, some of them
tall enough to wave like pines. The lupines, of which there are many
ill-defined species, are now mostly out of flower, and many of the
compositae are beginning to fade, their radiant corollas vanishing in
fluffy pappus like stars in mist.

We had another visitor from Brown's Flat to-day, an old Indian woman
with a basket on her back. Like our first caller from the village, she
got fairly into camp and was standing in plain view when discovered. How
long she had been quietly looking on, I cannot say. Even the dogs failed
to notice her stealthy approach. She was on her way, I suppose, to some
wild garden, probably for lupine and starchy saxifrage leaves and
rootstocks. Her dress was calico rags, far from clean. In every way she
seemed sadly unlike Nature's neat well-dressed animals, though living
like them on the bounty of the wilderness. Strange that mankind alone is
dirty. Had she been clad in fur, or cloth woven of grass or shreddy
bark, like the juniper and libocedrus mats, she might then have seemed a
rightful part of the wilderness; like a good wolf at least, or bear. But
from no point of view that I have found are such debased fellow beings a
whit more natural than the glaring tailored tourists we saw that
frightened the birds and squirrels.

_June 19._ Pure sunshine all day. How beautiful a rock is made by leaf
shadows! Those of the live oak are particularly clear and distinct, and
beyond all art in grace and delicacy, now still as if painted on stone,
now gliding softly as if afraid of noise, now dancing, waltzing in
swift, merry swirls, or jumping on and off sunny rocks in quick