cross the
moraine and upon the great ice mountain; and I, wrapped like a mummy in
linen strips, was able to join in his laughter as he told of the big
D.D.'s heroics, when, in the middle of an acre of alder brush, he asked
indignantly, in response to the hurry-up calls: "Do you think I'm going
to leave my wife in this forest?"

One overpowering regret--one only--abides in my heart as I think back
upon that golden day with John Muir. He could, and did, go back to
Glenora on the return trip of the _Cassiar_, ascend the mountain again,
see the sunset from its top, make charming sketches, stay all night and
see the sunrise, filling his cup of joy so full that he could pour out
entrancing descriptions for days. While I--well, with entreating arms
about one's neck and pleading, tearful eyes looking into one's own, what
could one do but promise to climb no more? But my lifelong lamentation
over a treasure forever lost, is this: "I never saw the sunset from that
peak."

THE VOYAGE

TOW-A-ATT

You are a child, old Friend--a child!
As light of heart, as free, as wild;
As credulous of fairy tale;
As simple in your faith, as frail
In reason; jealous, petulant;
As crude in manner; ignorant,
Yet wise in love; as rough, as mild--
You are a child!

You are a man, old Friend--a man!
Ah, sure in richer tide ne'er ran
The blood of earth's nobility,
Than through your veins; intrepid, free;
In counsel, prudent; proud and tall;
Of passions full, yet ruling all;
No stauncher friend since time began;
You are a MAN!

III

THE VOYAGE

The summer and fall of 1879 Muir always referred to as the most
interesting period of his adventurous life. From about the tenth of July
to the twentieth of November he was in southeastern Alaska. Very little
of this time did he spend indoors. Until steamboat navigation of the
Stickeen River was closed by the forming ice, he made frequent trips to
the Great Glacier--thirty miles up the river, to the Hot Springs, the
Mud Glacier and the interior lakes, ranges, forests and flower pastures.
Always upon his return (for my house was his home the most of that time)
he would be full to intoxication of what he had seen, and dinners would
grow cold and lamps burn out while he held us entranced with his
impassioned stories. Although his books are all masterpieces of lucid
and glowing English, Muir was one of those rare souls who talk better
than they write; an